Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

F/M, F/F

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Heated Rivalry (TV) RPF

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander & Svetlana Vetrova, David Hollander & Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander, David Hollander/Yuna Hollander, Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry/Svetlana Vetrova, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander & Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike & Jackie Pike, Hayden Pike/Jackie Pike, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders WAGs Ensemble & Shane Hollander

Characters:

Boston Bears | Boston Raiders WAGs Ensemble (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Rose Landry, Miles (Game Changers), Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Kip Grady, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike

Additional Tags:

Female Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Was Never a Professional Hockey Player, Actor Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Misses Irina Rozanova, Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Ilya Rozanov, WAG Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Multilingual Shane Hollander, College | University Student Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, Shane Hollander Speaks French, Shane Hollander Speaks Japanese, Hurt/Comfort, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Shane Hollander & Svetlana Vetrova Friendship, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova Friendship, Show-Canon Svetlana Vetrova, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Loverboy Ilya Rozanov, BAMF Shane Hollander, Confident Shane Hollander, Social Media, Ilya Rozanov is Hollander Catnip, Momager Yuna Hollander

Language:

English

Series:

Part 5 of Hollanov Lulu-verse

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-18 Completed: 2026-07-26 Words: 67,146 Chapters: 13/13

Dernière Danse

Summary

So, I'm trying something a little different with this new installment in the series, and I know it won't be everyone's cup of tea.

As much as I adore M/M, I've always wanted to throw my hat into the very small pool of Female!Shane/Male!Ilya stories. I've also been itching to write the actor!Shane trope for quite some time, so I finally decided to combine the two.

Another reason I wanted to write this fic is that, while I absolutely love exploring Shane's Japanese heritage, I realized I've been neglecting Ilya's Russian heritage throughout this series. I wanted to give that side of him more attention here and explore it in a way I haven't before.

I really hope you'll give it a chance, and if you do, I'd love to hear what you think. I hope you enjoy it! ❤️

Chapter 1: Thinking of You

Ilya was having a good night.

A very good night.

The Boston Bears had absolutely destroyed Montreal on home ice, and after a victory like that, there was no chance anyone was going straight home. The entire team had gone out to celebrate, moving from one bar to another until the night blurred into laughter, loud music, and far too many drinks. It was the kind of night where he could completely forget the crushing weight of expectations, forget the pressure, and just let loose.

It was the kind of night where he was supposed to have fun.

And then he saw her.

She was walking out of a nightclub with a small group of friends, heading toward another bar down the street like everyone else in Boston seemed to be doing that night. She immediately stood out from the crowd, mostly because she looked like she did not belong in the booze-soaked chaos surrounding her. She was around his age, with long, straight black hair that fell softly down her back. She had warm brown eyes, a shy little smile, and the most adorable freckles scattered across her face.

She was beautiful.

But not in the way Ilya usually went for. Normally, he gravitated toward girls who matched the chaotic, loud energy of the night. The confident ones who wanted to dance, drink, and have fun without asking too many questions. Those girls were easy; they didn't expect anything from him, and he didn't have to give anything of himself in return.

But this girl was completely different.

When he spotted her inside the next bar, she was sitting safely away from the worst of the chaos, nursing a ginger ale while watching everyone around her with an amused but slightly overwhelmed expression. She looked just as out of place as he felt beneath his cocky exterior.

So, naturally, he approached her.

At first, Ilya assumed she would be like most people who recognized him in this city. She would know he was a hockey player, maybe know the basics, maybe ask some superficial question about the Bears, and then the conversation would move somewhere predictable. Except she completely surprised him.

She knew hockey. Not just the surface-level stuff, either. She knew the players, the deep-cut strategies, and the ancient original-six rivalries. She truly understood the game.

And somehow, before he even realized what was happening, they were talking. Then talking more. Then talking even more. Hours passed without him noticing the clock ticking away. It had been a long, long time since he had enjoyed a conversation like that with someone who wasn't Svetlana—someone who actually wanted to discuss the sport itself, not just his fame, his paycheck, or his bad-boy reputation.

By the time the bar started becoming suffocatingly loud and crowded, Ilya found himself entirely unwilling to let the conversation end. So, acting on pure impulse, he invited her back to his penthouse.

And that was exactly when he started panicking.

Because this did not feel like a standard hookup. That was the problem. He had invited her over because he genuinely wanted to keep talking to her. He wanted to hear more of her thoughts, because spending more time with a stranger felt infinitely better than going home to an empty apartment after a night of celebration.

And that was dangerous. Ilya knew how these things worked. People left. People always left, and he didn't like the pain that came after getting attached.

So, as his key turned in the lock and he opened the door to his dark, expansive penthouse, he decided he needed to fix this before it became something it shouldn't. He would turn on the classic charm and remind himself that this was just another anonymous night. He would get her into his bed, get her out of his system, and everything would go back to normal.

Except nothing about Jane seems to be normal.

He had barely finished showing her into the living room when she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks.

"Oh my God."

Ilya turned around, startled by the sudden shift in her voice. "What?"

Jane was staring intently at one of the few photographs displayed on the wall. Ilya's own eyes widened as a cold splash of adrenaline washed over him, because he knew exactly which one she was looking at. It was an old, fragile picture of him and his mama. He was maybe eight years old, standing proudly beside Irina Rozanova with the biggest, toothiest smile on his face, completely unaware of how much that single moment would mean to him years later.

He opened his mouth to offer a quick, deflecting explanation, but Jane spoke first.

"Oh my God," she repeated, turning toward him with her breath caught in her throat. "You are the son of Irina Volkova?"

Ilya blinked, his carefully constructed playboy facade shattering instantly. "...What?"

"The golden wolf."

He stared at her, entirely lost. "The golden what?" For a second, he genuinely wondered if his English had suddenly stopped working altogether.

Jane looked at him like he was the strange one in the room. "Irina Volkova, the Russian ballerina?"

Recognition slowly crossed his face, replacing the confusion with a deep, stunning shock. "My mama? A ballerina?"

"Yes! She never told you about it?!" Jane's eyes widened with pure, unfiltered excitement. "She never went professional after the academy, but she used to dance ballet with my mom back in Saint Petersburg!"

And for the first time that night, the notoriously loud, smooth-talking Ilya Rozanov was left completely speechless. He had expected a lot of things when he brought Jane home to his penthouse.

This was absolutely not one of them.

Jane seemed completely oblivious to just how out of his depth Ilya suddenly felt. Instead of noticing his stunned, frozen silence, she lit up with excitement, her face practically glowing under the soft living room lights.

"Oh! Wait!"

She hurriedly pulled out her phone from her coat pocket, her thumbs flying across the glass screen as she began to scroll rapidly through what looked like years' worth of digital photos.

"I know I have it somewhere..." she murmured, biting her lip. Another quick swipe of her thumb. Another. Then, her face brightened in a burst of pure triumph. "Aha!"

She turned the glowing phone toward him.

Ilya crossed the distance between them in a single, urgent stride. He barely realized what he was doing before he had all but snatched the phone right out of her hands, his grip tight, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Because there she was.

His mama.

In the picture, she looked barely younger than Jane was right now. Her blonde hair was tied back tightly in a dancer's bun, and she was laughing deeply, genuinely, at whoever had been standing behind the camera.

Beside her stood another young woman. She looked so remarkably like Jane that there was absolutely no mistaking who she was. She possessed the exact same warm brown eyes and the very same gentle smile, only her face was smooth, lacking Jane's distinct, adorable scattering of freckles.

The two young girls had their arms thrown carelessly over each other's shoulders, grinning widely as though they hadn't a single worry in the entire world.

Ilya could only stare at the screen, as his breathing turned shallow.

He had seen photographs of his mother before, of course. He treasured every single grainy image he owned, keeping them tucked away like sacred relics. But he had never... he had never seen her smile like this. Not the tense, practiced smile she gave to strangers. Not the gentle, heartbreakingly tired smile she had always worn when he was growing up, the one she used when she was trying to convince her little boy that everything would be alright.

This smile was entirely carefree and unburdened.

It was the radiant smile of a teenager whose biggest concern in life was simply dancing better than everyone else in the studio the next morning. It was the smile of someone who still fully believed, with all her heart, that life would be kind to her.

"I..." Jane began, her voice soft as she kept smiling, completely unaware of the sudden emotional storm brewing violently inside him. "My mom was actually born in Kyoto."

The unexpected detail finally pulled Ilya's hyper-focused attention away from the photograph. He blinked, looking up. "Kyoto?"

Jane nodded, her straight black hair shifting over her shoulder. "Yeah. But there really weren't ballet academies in Japan that could compare to the Russian ones back then. At least, not for what she wanted to achieve. She earned a prestigious scholarship and moved all the way to Saint Petersburg for her high school years just to train there." Jane let out a fond laugh. "That's where she met your mom."

Ilya looked right back down at the picture, his thumb lightly brushing the edge of the phone. "They trained together?"

"Mhm." Jane leaned over slightly beside him, her shoulder brushing his arm as she pointed toward the screen. "My mom always said your mother was her biggest rival."

A tiny, unbidden smile finally found its way onto Ilya's lips. "My mama having a rival, I cannot believe that. She was always too gentle and kind for rivarly."

"Oh, they were both ridiculously, fiercely competitive," Jane shared, laughing warmly. "My mom usually got the lead roles, though." She paused for a moment, her expression softening into something incredibly tender. "But whenever she told me those old stories, she'd always say the same exact thing."

Ilya looked up, his chest tightening. "What?"

"She'd say, 'I might have danced the lead, but Irina was the one I couldn't stop watching.'"

He blinked, a lump forming in his throat.

Jane's eyes sparkled as she recounted the memory. "She always said your mom danced with so much raw passion. That whenever she stepped onto a stage, it was completely impossible to look anywhere else. I lost count of the times I heard her say that Irina lit up the entire theater."

The words struck him harder than any brutal, bone-crushing body check ever had on the ice.

Jane continued talking, entirely unaware that every sweet sentence leaving her lips was carefully, meticulously stitching back together the pieces of a woman Ilya had thought were lost to the past forever.

"When I was little, she'd show me old recordings from those years," Jane smiled, her gaze distant and fond. "I absolutely loved watching them." A breathless laugh escaped her. "And honestly? I agreed with her." She looked up, meeting his eyes with complete, unwavering sincerity. "Your mom was just... fun."

Ilya's vision suddenly blurred, the edges of the room turning hazy.

Fun.

His mama had been fun.

Not weak. Not pitiful. Not utterly broken by the world. Those were the heavy, tragic words everyone back in Russia seemed to use when they remembered her. The exhausted and fragile woman abandoned by life. The one the neighbors whispered about with suffocating pity.

But that wasn't the vibrant woman sitting in front of him on this tiny phone screen. Nor was she the brilliant woman Jane's mother had carried in her memories for decades. They remembered the girl who laughed until her sides ached. The dancer who loved the stage with a burning ferocity and who danced because she loved the music. The rival who made every single performance brighter simply by entering the stage.

And suddenly, without warning, Ilya was eight years old again. He was standing in their cramped, warm kitchen, watching his mama twirl effortlessly around the linoleum floor while a pot of soup simmered on the stove. He could hear her laughing as she grabbed his small hands, pulling him into clumsy, stumbling little waltzes that she playfully insisted were professional ballet.

Fun. That was exactly who she had been.

A sharp, ragged sob caught painfully in his throat, threatening to break out. He looked away from the photograph and focused entirely on Jane, who was looking back at him with nothing but pure affection and warmth as she spoke about his mother.

Someone else in this massive, lonely world remembered her that way. Someone else had known and loved the exact same Irina he had loved. For reasons he couldn't even begin to explain it meant the entire world to him.

Jane remained blissfully unaware of the storm raging violently inside him. Or perhaps, Ilya thought bitterly as he forced his features into a rigid mask, he had simply become a much better actor than he ever realized.

When she gently reached out to take her phone back from his hands, his first, desperate instinct was to pull away and hold onto it. He wanted the photograph of the smiling, radiant version of his mama. He wanted irrefutable proof that she had once been so carefree, so completely unburdened by the weight of the world.

Instead, Jane beamed, her face splitting into a bright, excited grin.

"I have to tell my mom," she laughed, her thumbs already tapping rapidly on her contacts list. "She is never going to believe this."

The video call rang twice before someone finally answered on the other end. Because Jane held the phone angled tightly toward herself, Ilya could only hear the voice drifting through the speaker.

"Jane?" a warm, slightly sleepy female voice asked. "Are you alright, sweetheart? Why are you calling so late? And how are you settling into Boston?"

"I'm fine, Mom," Jane said quickly, her voice practically vibrating with barely contained excitement. "But you're never going to believe who I just met."

Without another word, she turned the phone around, aiming the camera directly at him.

For a single, tense heartbeat, Ilya braced himself. He expected the usual routine. Oh, gosh, you are Ilya Rozanov! The Boston Bear’s captain! It is an honor to meet you!

Instead, the woman on the screen gasped so loudly that both Ilya and Jane jumped.

"No way..." The woman’s eyes instantly filled with tears, her hand flying to her mouth. "You're... you're Irina's son?"

Ilya blinked, completely caught off guard. "...Yes?"

"My goodness." The woman covered her face for a second, laughing through her pure, unadulterated disbelief. "You met my daughter in Boston? What a small, beautiful world." Then, she leaned closer to the camera, her tear-filled eyes scanning his face with a look of profound recognition. "Oh, Kami-sama... you even have her moles."

Without thinking, Ilya's fingers rose slowly to brush some of the moles on his face. It was a trait his mama had shared. In all his years, through all the media profiles and hockey interviews, no one had ever pointed it out before. No one had ever looked close enough to see her.

Jane looked between them in triumphant confusion before smiling widely. “Isn’t this wicked?”

"I can't believe this," her mother whispered, shaking her head. Then, she suddenly looked over her shoulder, her voice rising as she called out into her house. "David! David, come here right now! You are never going to believe who Jane met in Boston!"

A muffled, deep voice answered from somewhere deeper in the home. "What is it?"

"It's Irina's son!"

Heavy, hurried footsteps immediately sounded down the hallway on the other end.

And somehow... somehow, the next thing Ilya knew, he was standing beside Jane in his own expansive kitchen while she started preparing a late-night dinner as though this were the most natural thing in the entire world.

He found himself standing at the island, quietly chopping vegetables while the phone rested securely against a ceramic fruit bowl, balanced perfectly so everyone could see each other. The conversation never once stopped.

Yuna—because she insisted, with absolute warmth, that he call her Yuna—talked and laughed as memory after memory poured out of her like a dam breaking. She told him all about Saint Petersburg. About arriving from Kyoto as a terrified, homesick teenager who could barely speak a single word of Russian. About meeting Irina on the very first day at the ballet academy.

"She absolutely terrified me," Yuna admitted, laughing fondly at the memory. "She was just that good."

Jane laughed, tossing a handful of noodles into a boiling pot. "So, you finally admit she was better than you?"

"Oh, absolutely not," Yuna scoffed dramatically, waving a dismissive hand at the camera. "She simply had the terrible, infuriating habit of making everyone else look bad whenever she danced."

Ilya smiled despite himself, the tight knot in his chest loosening just a fraction as Yuna continued telling her stories. She spoke of how Irina would sneak pastries into the dark dormitory after brutal rehearsals. How she would convince half the academy to dance in the forbidden corridors after curfew. How she would laugh so hard at the simplest things that she would entirely forget what the conversation had been about.

"She was sunlight," Yuna said softly, her eyes turning deeply tender. "Even when we were completely exhausted, when our feet were bleeding and we wanted to quit, she would somehow convince us to smile."

Ilya listened in absolute silence, the knife stalling against the cutting board.

Then, Yuna's bright smile faltered ever so slightly on the screen. "After graduation..." She sighed, a touch of sadness slipping into her tone. "She disappeared. I always wondered what happened to her. We all did. I tried writing to her old address for a while, but eventually... life simply carried us in entirely different directions."

She smiled again, though this one held a heavy note of melancholy. "I joined the Montreal Ballet Company. I met David, got married, and then Jane came along." She looked fondly toward her daughter on the screen. "So, I suppose life simply... happened."

Ilya lowered his eyes, focusing intensely on the vegetables he was cutting.

He knew exactly what had happened. Irina hadn't simply disappeared into thin air. She had married his father.

The bright, laughing, independent girl Yuna remembered so vividly had become the quiet, faded woman Ilya had grown up with. The woman whose shoulders always seemed tired, bent under the weight of an invisible sorrow. The woman who smiled only because she desperately wanted her little boy to worry less, not because she herself possessed an ounce of happiness.

His father had taken someone who had once been pure, radiant sunlight... and little by little, day by day, he had systematically extinguished that light.

For most of his life, Ilya had feared his father. He had resented him for his cruelty. He had wanted nothing more than to run as far away from him as his legs could carry him. But hatred... hatred had always felt like too strong of a word.

Until now.

Until he had finally seen, through the eyes of a long-lost friend, exactly who his mama had been before Grigori Rozanov entered her life and broke her spirit. For the very first time in his entire life... Ilya truly, deeply hated his father.

The following morning, Ilya woke with a stiff, throbbing neck and a soft blanket tucked neatly over his broad shoulders.

He blinked blearily at the sight for a long, disoriented moment, staring up at the high ceiling of his penthouse as he tried to piece together exactly how he had ended up sleeping on his own sofa instead of his massive, empty bed.

Fragments of the previous night slowly came rushing back to him in vivid, striking colors: the raucous victory over Montreal, the bar, the shy half-Japanese girl with the dark hair and freckles, the photograph of his mama, Yuna's delighted gasp through the small phone screen, and stories that had stretched well past midnight over a dinner that had somehow turned into hours of shared laughter.

At some point, sheer emotional and physical exhaustion had won the battle, and apparently, he had simply passed out right where he sat. He pushed himself upright with a low groan, rubbing the stubborn sleep from his eyes as he looked around the expansive, modern room.

"Jane?" he called out instinctively, his voice rough and gravelly.

Nothing. There was no answer. The penthouse was dead silent.

Part of him genuinely wondered whether he had imagined the entire evening in one of his typical, liquor-fueled stupors. It all felt far too impossible, far too much like a desperate fairytale his own subconscious would invent after one drink too many. A girl who remembered his mama not as the shattered, hollow woman everyone in Russia seemed to recall, but as someone vibrant. Someone joyful who lit up a theater stage simply because she loved the music and ballet.

It felt entirely too good to be true.

Even Svetlana, who had absolutely adored his mama, always remembered her through a heavy lens of exhaustion and enduring suffering. Svetlana loved Irina because she had been Ilya's mama and because she possessed a rare, gentle kindness, but the image that always remained in her mind was of a woman systematically worn down by the cruelty of life.

Jane had known a completely different Irina. Not the woman crushed beneath the suffocating shadow of Grigori Rozanov. Not the frightened, defensive mother desperately trying to shield her young son from a monster. She had known the young, ambitious ballerina whose brilliant smile easily reached her eyes, whose raw passion had completely captivated audiences, and whose joy had been so fiercely infectious that another dancer still remembered it fondly decades later.

For one single evening, Ilya had almost been able to meet that version of his mama. It had honestly felt like she was alive again. His chest tightened with a sharp ache.

Then, something caught his eye. The blanket.

He frowned, looking down at the fabric. He was almost certain it hadn't been lying on the sofa the night before, and even if it had, there was absolutely no chance that a drunken, emotionally drained Ilya would have possessed the presence of mind to neatly cover himself before passing out.

His gaze drifted from the blanket to the low coffee table. A neatly arranged, carefully covered breakfast waited for him right beside a precisely folded note. His heart skipped a heavy beat, as he reached out, picked up the paper, and unfolded it with slightly trembling fingers.

Sorry! I had to leave early because of work. Thank you for last night—it was really nice talking with you.

—Jane

P.S. Here's my number in case you'd like to call me sometime.

A phone number was written neatly beneath the message in the same tidy, elegant handwriting.

Ilya stared at the note for a long, quiet moment before a breathless laugh escaped his lips. That... that was surprisingly bold for the cute, incredibly shy girl he had met at the bar last night. Then again, maybe she wasn't quite as shy as he had first assumed. Or maybe she had simply been nervous around the loud, overwhelming atmosphere of a crowded city nightlife.

Either way, he carefully folded the paper back up, slipped it safely into the deepest slot of his wallet, and sat down to eat the breakfast she had left behind for him.

He told himself he wasn't going to call her. He had enough complications, pressure, and dark history in his life already. He certainly wasn't about to start chasing after a complete stranger simply because her mother had known his.

A full week passed.

Every single morning, Ilya found himself opening his wallet, his eyes tracing the folded note tucked securely inside. Every single evening, he told himself he should just throw it in the trash and move on.

But he never did.

Finally, after seven long days of losing the exact same exhausting argument with himself, he unlocked his phone and typed the digits into his contacts. He stared at the empty, white message box for nearly five minutes, his large fingers hovering uselessly above the glass screen.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He had never once struggled to text anyone in his entire life. Normally, it was entirely effortless—a quick joke, followed by a smooth, flirtatious line, and a late-night invitation that both parties fully understood would end the exact same way. Instead, his thumbs completely betrayed him, typing out a message that felt agonizingly stiff.

Ilya: Hi, I'm Ilya.

He hit send. "...For fuck's sake," he muttered aloud, burying his face in one hand as the text bubble turned blue.

Where had all his usual charm and game gone? He felt like an awkward, bumbling teenager who had never spoken to a woman before in his life. Groaning at his own stupidity, he hurriedly typed out another message before his brain could overthink it any further.

Ilya: Want to meet?

He tossed the phone onto the cushions beside him as though the device had personally offended him. Not even thirty seconds later, the phone buzzed, vibrating against the fabric.

Ilya snatched it back so violently he nearly dropped it onto the floor.

Jane: Hi, Ilya. I'm doing well. I hope you've had a good week. 😊 I'm working right now, but I'll be finished in about three hours. If you'd like, you can pick me up at this address, and we could have dinner afterward.

He read the text message twice. Then a third time.

It was so... perfectly normal. Polite and warm, with complete sentences, proper punctuation, and she had even included a little smiley face. He found himself smiling right back at the glowing screen before he even realized what he was doing.

God, she was absolutely adorable.

His fingers moved with far more confidence this time, the familiar swagger of his personality finally locking back into place.

Ilya: Sounds good. I know a great Russian restaurant.

He hit send, leaned his head back against the blue cushions, and laughed quietly to himself. He, Ilya Rozanov—the infamous, smooth-talking athlete who could charm absolute strangers in packed, chaotic nightclubs without thinking twice—had spent an entire week psyching himself up just to send two painfully awkward text messages to a shy girl he had met exactly once.

And somehow... he couldn't wait to see her again.

Ilya grabbed his car keys from the kitchen counter and paused for a brief moment before heading for the door.

Please don't let this be a mistake.

He wasn't entirely sure who he was praying to. God had never seemed particularly interested in answering his prayers, but he sent the thought into the universe anyway before slipping out of his penthouse.

Chapter 2: Daydreamin'

His Porsche purred to life beneath him as he followed the address Jane had texted him. The closer he got, the stranger the surroundings became.

Large trailers lined the street and heavy black cables slithered across the pavement like a nest of snakes. All while crew members in headsets hurried from one end of the block to the other carrying cameras, lighting equipment, and oversized coffee cups. It looked exactly like one of those massive movie sets he'd occasionally driven past in Los Angeles during away games against the Kings.

His stomach tightened into a knot.

Oh, no.

The last thing he wanted was to step out of his car and end up photographed by some entertainment reporter. Normally he couldn't care less if TMZ caught him leaving a nightclub or stumbling out of a restaurant after midnight—he was Ilya Rozanov, he practically thrived under the notoriety—but today...

Today felt important.

He didn't want to ruin it before it had even begun.

Luckily, he didn't have to.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar figure leaving one of the white trailers. Jane slowed her pace, her brow furrowing slightly as she looked toward his sleek Porsche with obvious confusion, as though she were trying to determine whether it really was him behind the tinted glass.

Ilya rolled down the passenger-side window and gave her a small wave. Her face immediately brightened. There was that laugh again—that soft, almost surprised little laugh he already found himself looking forward to hearing.

She hurried over, opened the passenger door and climbed in, bringing a faint scent of rain and vanilla with her. "Hi."

"Hi," Ilya echoed.

Silence.

Not an awkward silence, exactly.

Just...

A very aware silence.

Jane smiled at him.

He smiled back.

She tilted her head ever so slightly, her straight black hair shifting over her shoulder.

He kept smiling.

She continued smiling.

Five full seconds passed.

Then ten.

Then, somehow, nearly a minute.

Ilya had absolutely no idea what was happening to him.

Normally he had a line. A joke. A smooth, practiced flirt. Anything. Svetlana had practically trained him from the time he was fifteen. She always said confidence could be learned if you treated it like a drill, and over the years he'd become very, very good at talking to women.

Except...

Apparently, none of that hard-earned experience applied to Jane.

With her, he felt like every other idiot who stumbled over his words in romantic comedies. He fumbled, overthought, and completely forgot how human conversations worked.

Worst of all...

He couldn't stop looking at her.

She was looking back at him with that same gentle smile, entirely unbothered by the silence, and before he realized it, they'd been staring at one another long enough for it to become objectively ridiculous.

"Oh." He blinked, breaking the spell. "I should probably drive."

Jane giggled, the sound light and musical. "I think that's a good idea."

His ears burned hot.

God, I'm embarrassing.

Thankfully, once the Porsche pulled away from the curb and merged into the traffic, he had a perfectly valid excuse to keep his eyes on the road instead of on her freckled face.

"So..." he began after a mile, clearing his throat. "What do you actually do?"

She looked at him curiously.

"I never really asked." He felt a little guilty about that, but instead of apologizing, he simply continued, gesturing back toward the trailers. "Let me guess. You are a, I don't know... a producer? Something like that?"

Jane burst out laughing. It was not mocking, but warm and genuine. Making her brown eyes crinkle at the corners. "You really didn't recognize me at all, did you?"

He glanced at her briefly before looking back at the pavement ahead. "...Should I have?"

Her dark eyebrows lifted in amusement. "So, you genuinely don't know?"

"I don't."

She laughed again, shaking her head. "Well... I guess I'm kind of famous."

Ilya's hand slipped on the shifter, and he nearly missed a gear. "You're famous?"

"A little."

"What do you mean, a little?"

"I'm an actress."

He stared at the road in complete, unadulterated disbelief. "You're an actress?"

"Mhm." She smiled sheepishly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Don't worry, though. I'm half Canadian, half Japanese, and I've spent almost my entire career filming in Québec. Mostly French-language films. So, it makes perfect sense you wouldn't recognize me."

A massive wave of relief flooded through him, loosening the tight muscles in his shoulders. "Oh."

She looked thoroughly amused by his reaction. "'Oh'?"

"I was worried I'd somehow managed to miss someone incredibly obvious. Like, I don't know, a big Hollywood star."

Jane covered her mouth with her hand to hide another laugh. "No. Not unless you regularly watch French-Canadian art cinema."

He snorted, a grin tugging at his lips. "English is difficult enough. I don't think I’ll start learning French anytime soon."

She raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eyes. He paused dramatically, letting the silence stretch for a beat before adding in the most atrocious, heavy, and exaggerated accent imaginable,

"...Bonjour."

The second the word left his mouth, Ilya wanted to open the door and throw himself out of the moving car.

Idiot.

Jane, however, completely dissolved into helpless, breathless laughter. The joyful sound filled the entire cabin of the Porsche. And somehow, despite the vibrant embarrassment burning on his cheeks...

It felt completely worth it.

Ilya chose his favorite restaurant for dinner.

It wasn't the fanciest place in Boston, and it certainly wasn't the kind of high-end restaurant where celebrities went to be seen by the paparazzi. That was exactly why he loved it.

The owners were second-generation Russian immigrants, their parents having built the restaurant from the ground up after leaving Russia decades ago. They had grown up surrounded by the exact same food, the same traditions, and the same language that Ilya had known as a child. Walking through the heavy front doors always felt like stepping into a small, preserved piece of home.

The menus were written entirely in Cyrillic, and the overlapping conversations of the staff were spoken in rapid Russian. Plus, the rich, savory smells drifting from the kitchen instantly reminded him of his mama.

It was as close as he could possibly get to Russia without actually having to go back.

The moment he walked inside, he was greeted with a chorus of familiar, boisterous voices.

"Ilya!"

Before he could even properly remove his coat, Anastasia, one of the owners, hurried over and pulled him into a fierce hug. "My boy, congratulations! You absolutely destroyed Montreal!"

Ilya laughed, genuinely returning the warm embrace. "It was a good game."

"A good game?" one of the line cooks called out from behind the counter, waving a wooden spoon. "You made their defense look like small children!"

Everyone in the dining room laughed.

The congratulations in Russian continued to follow them as they made their way through the restaurant, and Ilya found himself relaxing in a way he rarely ever did anywhere else in the city. Here, he wasn't the untouchable Russian superstar from the Boston Bears. He was simply Ilya, someone who came in for good food and honest conversation.

Then, Anastasia finally noticed the quiet person standing right beside him. Her eyes immediately lit up with interest. "And who is this?"

Ilya glanced toward Jane, clearing his throat slightly. "This is Jane."

Anastasia smiled a deeply knowing, maternal smile. "Ah."

The single word somehow carried an entire conversation all on its own. Ilya already knew exactly where this was going.

"Very cute date you brought," Anastasia teased, nudging his arm.

Jane immediately smiled politely, her demeanor perfectly graceful. "Thank you for the compliment. It's very nice to be here."

Ilya froze dead in his tracks.

Not because of what she said.

Because of what language she said it.

Perfect Russian. No hesitation whatsoever and no lingering accent. It was completely flawless.

He turned slowly toward her, his jaw nearly dropping. "...You speak Russian?"

Jane looked slightly confused by the sheer magnitude of his stunned reaction. "Da?"

Ilya just stared at her. She was an actress with a Hockey IQ to rival Svetlana. She knew things about his mama that not even Ilya had known. She was Japanese-Canadian, had freckles that routinely made his brain turn to absolute mush, and now, on top of everything else, she spoke fluent Russian?

He looked over at Anastasia, silently asking with a desperate look if she was seeing this too.

Is this real? Did I actually find a person this perfect, or am I completely hallucinating?

Anastasia only laughed at his bewildered expression, clapping her hands together. "Oh, Ilya." She shook her head fondly. "She's a keeper."

His ears immediately turned a bright, furious red. It was embarrassing how much that sounded like something an overbearing aunt would say to him. "Anastasia..."

"What?" she replied, holding her hands up innocently. "I am only saying the absolute truth."

Jane, meanwhile, was blushing. Not out of deep embarrassment, but just out of a sweet shyness. She looked up at him with that same warm smile she always seemed to have ready for him, and something deep in his chest twisted tightly.

Because suddenly, impossibly, he didn't want this evening to ever end.

He wanted to know absolutely everything about her. Every language she spoke. Every single story she carried from her life. Every little, insignificant thing that made her smile like that.

He wanted to keep her.

And normally, a thought that heavy should have absolutely terrified him. Instead, it felt strangely, profoundly natural.

They were led to one of the private, high-backed booths in the very back of the restaurant, the exact one Ilya usually requested whenever he wanted to eat without being interrupted by lingering fans or flashing cameras. The staff knew him well enough to respect his space, but after years of being recognized everywhere he went, sometimes he just craved a quiet meal.

Anastasia handed them both the menus. Ilya didn't even need to look down at the text.

"Pelmeni," he said immediately.

Jane smiled, closing her menu. "That was fast."

"I know what I like."

She glanced back down at the Cyrillic print for a split second. "I think I'll try the borscht."

He raised an eyebrow, leaning forward on his elbows. "First time?"

She shook her head, her dark hair catching the warm ambient lighting. "No. My mom used to make it all the time."

That made him pause, the surreality of it hitting him again.

Of course she did. Of course, the woman who had known his mama, who had shared a grand stage with his mama, had also brought pieces of Russia into her daughter's upbringing.

"Then you have incredibly good taste," Ilya commented softly.

Jane smiled, her brown eyes meeting his across the table. And once again, the smooth-talking Ilya Rozanov didn't have a clever, cocky response lined up. He simply smiled right back at her.

As they waited for their food to arrive, Ilya found himself studying her, his gaze tracking the soft line of her jaw. He still couldn't quite believe how many things about her continued to surprise him. Every time he thought he had her figured out, she pulled another curtain back.

"So..." he started, resting his large arms on the table and leaning in. "How exactly do you speak Russian?"

Jane looked up from the menu, and for a fleeting moment, he expected the same shy hesitation she had shown the previous night in the crowded bar. Instead, she simply smiled, a spark of playful confidence lighting up her brown eyes.

"My mom trained at a brutal ballet academy in Saint Petersburg, Ilya. You really think she wouldn't teach her only child Russian?"

Ilya laughed softly, the deep sound vibrating in his chest. "Fair point."

"I grew up in a bilingual household," she continued, tracing the edge of her napkin. "English and Japanese at home before I even started school. Then, because we lived in Canada, I learned French." She paused, then added with a small, amused shrug, "By high school, my mom decided that wasn't nearly enough."

Ilya already knew exactly where this was going. "Russian tutor?"

Jane nodded. "Russian tutor. She made sure I practiced every single day, and whenever we were home together, she would only speak Russian with me."

There was an unmistakable fondness in her voice when she talked about it. No lingering frustration, or deep-seated bitterness. Just pure, unadulterated affection.

"Let's just say there was a reason she flourished at a Russian ballet academy," Jane added teasingly.

Ilya winced slightly. He knew exactly what Russian ballet academies could be like. The ruthless discipline and suffocating pressure. The endless, exhausting hours on bleeding feet. He knew because he had lived through his own grueling version of it with hockey back in Russia. Coaches who pushed until your body screamed for mercy. Expectations that never seemed to end and the constant, haunting fear of not being enough.

But Jane wasn't saying it with an ounce of resentment. She sounded amused, like she was remembering a ridiculous, stubborn habit her mother had rather than something cruel.

And after meeting Yuna through that brief video call, Ilya understood why. There had been so much fierce warmth in the woman's voice when she talked about her daughter. So much blinding pride. Growing up, Jane had never once doubted that her mother loved her fiercely.

Still, the mention of Russia had soured his mood. There were too many heavy memories. Things he didn't want to think about while sitting across from someone who made him feel so unexpectedly, entirely happy.

So, he intentionally changed the topic of conversation.

"Okay," he said, clearing the tightness from his throat. "Tell me about your movies."

Jane blinked, caught off guard. "My movies?"

"You're an actress. I should probably know what you've actually done."

She laughed, a clear, bright sound. "That would have been useful information before you invited me to dinner, Rozanov."

"I was distracted."

That earned another soft laugh, and Ilya felt a surge of pride. He liked how easily he could make her do that.

"Well," she began, leaning back against the high cushion of the booth. "After high school, I went to McGill University to study linguistics."

"Linguistics?"

She nodded. "I wanted to polish all my languages. Make sure I was actually fluent and structural, and not just someone who grew up hearing them around the dinner table."

Ilya found himself deeply impressed. "And the acting?"

"That happened completely by accident."

"Accident?"

"Pretty much." She smiled as the memory surfaced. "I had a classmate who challenged me to audition for a movie. I think it was less because she believed in me and more because she desperately wanted to embarrass me in public."

"Why?" Ilya raised a sharp eyebrow.

Jane shrugged. "Long story. I think she had a massive crush on a guy who had a massive crush on me, so she thought watching me fail miserably would be funny."

"And?"

"And I got the lead role."

He laughed, a smug, satisfied grin spreading across his face. "Of course you did."

Jane rolled her eyes, but she was smiling widely. "It was for a prominent French-Canadian director. The film was very... artistic."

"Meaning?"

She hesitated, her grin turning a bit sheepish. "Meaning depressing."

Ilya smiled faintly, nodding in understanding. "Ah. Very artistic."

"My character didn't even have a name," she explained, her tone turning more introspective. "She was just this anonymous woman walking through the streets of Montreal. The entire movie was a study on loneliness and suicidal thoughts. She spends the whole film trying to figure out ways she could end her life."

The lingering smile slowly, completely faded from Ilya's face.

Jane continued talking, entirely unaware of the sudden shift in his mood. "It was very symbolic. The director wanted her to represent anyone who feels completely lost or disconnected from the world. The ending was left entirely ambiguous. You never actually know what is the method she uses to end her life or if she even goes through with it."

Ilya stared down at the dark wood of the table, his muscles locking up.

The bustling restaurant suddenly felt completely silent, the ambient noise fading into static. Because all he could think about, all he could see in his mind's eye, was his mama.

A woman who had once danced like she owned the very world. A woman who had once been so full of vibrant, unstoppable life. A woman who had eventually become someone who would take her own life out desperation. The thought of someone making beautiful art out of that specific kind of emptiness, that kind of crushing hopelessness, hit far too close to the raw wounds in his heart.

Jane noticed the sudden, stark change in his expression. Her smile faded, replaced by instant concern. "Ilya?"

He looked up quickly, forcing his eyes to clear. He didn't want to bring the mood down. Not tonight, and especially not with her. So, he forced a tense, practiced smile on his lips. "Sorry. I was just thinking."

She studied him for a long moment, her intelligent brown eyes searching his face as if she knew there was an entire ocean of text behind that short answer. But she didn't push or demand his secrets.

And Ilya appreciated that grace more than she could probably ever realize.

Their steaming plates of food finally arrived, delivered by an attentive waiter and saving him from having to explain the shadows behind his blue eyes.

As they ate, the conversation slowly returned to lighter things.

The food helped. There was something deeply comforting about sitting across from someone while sharing a familiar meal, listening to their stories, and learning the little, hidden details that made them who they were.

Ilya twirled his fork through his pelmeni before looking up at her with a teasing smile. "So," he said, the familiar cocky glint returning to his eyes, "I assume you had to work very hard for a movie like that?"

Jane immediately laughed, shaking her head. "Oh, it was very hard."

He raised an eyebrow, prompting her to clarify without words.

She nodded, her expression becoming more thoughtful as she set her spoon down. "It was a difficult role. Really difficult. It put me in a mental state that was... honestly, just too depressing." The humor completely faded from her voice. "And as harsh as it sounds, I don't think I want to work with that director ever again."

Ilya listened silently, his focus entirely locked on her.

"I was only eighteen," she continued, looking past him for a moment. "And maybe that was exactly part of what he wanted for the film. Someone young and vibrant playing someone completely broken to create this dramatic shockwave for the audience." She shook her head. "But looking back, I don't think anyone my age should have been asked to portray something that heavy."

Ilya frowned slightly. Jane wasn't saying it with raw anger or resentment. She was saying it with the kind of mature understanding that came from having lived through something genuinely difficult and coming out the other side.

"Nothing actually happened to me," she clarified quickly, wanting to reassure him. "I was okay. But when you're acting a role like that, you don't just pretend to be sad for five minutes and then walk away cleanly. You have to keep going back to that dark place. Again and again, day after day." Her fingers moved slightly, tracing a nervous pattern against the condensation on her water glass. "It pulls you in. And it keeps pulling."

Ilya remained silent, the gravity of her words settling over him.

"And what bothered me the most afterward was seeing some of the critics talk about the character like she was weak," Jane’s expression tightened, a flash of real conviction in her eyes. "Like she was selfish and should just get over it. They never truly understood her. They never understood that people who feel that way don't always realize they're not alone in the dark. Sometimes they feel completely trapped and they can't see any other viable option. Sometimes they don't understand how much their mere existence matters to other people."

She looked down at her plate, her voice dropping to a soft, vulnerable whisper. "They're not some different, broken kind of person. They're people, just like everyone else. They can be happy, or funny. They can love people fiercely, and they can have good days and bad days." She looked back up, meeting his gaze with complete sincerity. "They just need help, someone to reach out. They don't need people judging them or making them feel worse about their pain."

For a long moment, Ilya could only stare at her.

Because once again, she had managed to completely surprise him. He had expected a pretty actress who happened to know his mama. Instead, he was sitting across from someone who possessed this deep, almost painful empathy for people she had never even met.

Slowly, the tight tension he hadn't even realized he was still carrying began to leave his shoulders. His mama had spent so much of her life being misunderstood, judged, and whispered about by people who only saw her brokenness. And Jane... Jane understood without him having to explain a single thing.

She might not know what happened to his mama at the end. Ilya had not been able to tell the Hollanders of his mama’s suicide, enjoying the fact that she was still alive in their memories too much. But Ilya thought that if he were to tell Jane about his mama’s accident, she would not judge her.

"Did the movie at least do well?" he asked softly, intentionally trying to bring them back to a lighter territory before the shadows took over entirely.

Jane smiled, the heavy mood breaking instantly. "Actually, yes. Very well."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It became a pretty big hit in Canada and did really well at international film festivals." She shrugged, a faint, adorable blush spreading over her freckles as she turned almost embarrassed by her own success. "I even won Best Lead Performer in a Drama Film at the Canadian Screen Awards."

Ilya immediately smiled at her with genuine pride. "Congratulations."

"Thank you."

He shook his head, leaning forward. "No, really. That's incredibly impressive, Jane. Especially for your first role."

Jane looked at him for a moment, absorbing the praise, and then her expression shifted into a look of absolute, playful disbelief. "Well, Canadian Screen Award or not..." She leaned slightly closer across the table, a teasing, dangerous sparkle appearing in her brown eyes. "...apparently I am still not famous enough to be recognized by a hockey star."

Ilya froze, caught entirely off guard. Then he laughed. A real, booming laugh that echoed in the quiet corner of the restaurant. "Okay, that's fair."

"Very fair," she agreed, tilting her head.

"I apologize."

Jane smiled, her eyes crinkling. "Accepted."

Sitting there with a woman could tease his massive ego without a shred of hesitation, Ilya realized something profound. For the first time in a very, very long time... he wasn't trying to impress someone. He wasn't trying to activate his carefully rehearsed playboy charm. He wasn't desperately trying to be the loud, untouchable person that everyone expected him to be on and off the ice.

He was simply Ilya.

And somehow, Jane seemed to like that version of him the most.

Chapter 3: Naturally

Jane could not remember the last time she had laughed this much with someone she had just met.

It was almost ridiculous how easy it felt. She had spent so much of the evening expecting to feel like she was walking on eggshells, trying to figure out the right thing to say or wondering if she was making a fool of herself in front of a literal sports icon. Instead, she was sitting barefoot on Ilya’s expansive leather sofa, her heels long abandoned somewhere near the penthouse entrance, her legs tucked comfortably beneath her as she held a cold can of Canada Dry between both hands.

The fact that he had gone completely out of his way to find a niche Canadian market in Boston before they returned to his place still made her heart ache. It was such a small thing, such an unnecessary thing, but somehow it felt infinitely more thoughtful than any grand, expensive gesture could have been.

That was Ilya, she was rapidly starting to realize. Everything about him seemed deliberately bigger than necessary. His booming personality, his uninhibited laughter, his relentless teasing, even the precise way he cared about people. He was the exact kind of person who would make a sharp, deflective joke five seconds after doing something incredibly sweet, as if he desperately needed to hide the fact that he possessed a heart far softer than anyone expected.

She leaned against the cushioned back of the sofa, one arm resting over the top as she turned toward him. Ilya mirrored her posture without even realizing it, though unlike her, he kept both of his feet planted firmly on the hardwood floor. They had spent the last hour talking about absolutely everything and nothing at all, effortlessly jumping from one story to another without needing to force the conversation.

She had learned that Cliff was apparently the only person in the entire Boston Bears organization capable of stopping Ilya from making terrible decisions, which was a terrifying amount of responsibility Jane already considered unfairly placed on one man. She had heard wild stories about Kozlov’s thoroughly questionable sense of humor, St-Simon’s total inability to keep quiet when he should, and the absolute locker room chaos that apparently happened during team practices.

In return, she had trusted him with stories about her own world. About chaotic film sets where actors routinely forgot their lines, temperamental directors who became entirely too dramatic over the smallest technical errors, and the strange, superficial reality of working in an industry where everyone pretended they knew exactly what they were doing even when nobody had a clue.

And somehow, through all of it, she had never once felt like she needed to perform.

That was the strangest part of all.

Jane was entirely used to people seeing curated parts of her before they ever saw her. They saw the award-winning actress, the critical acclaim, the indie movies, the unique girl from Ottawa who somehow ended up speaking four languages fluently. They saw the public version of her, the one carefully put together for press junkets, interviews, and cameras.

But with Ilya, she was just Jane. A girl drinking ginger ale and laughing about ridiculous locker room pranks in a hockey player’s penthouse.

She glanced at him as he laughed at something she had just said, his entire face shifting, the sharp, severe lines of his jaw softening entirely when he was genuinely amused. It was impossible not to notice how drastically different he was from the rigid image the media painted of him. The infamous, untouchable Boston Bears enforcer, the terrifying Russian star, the man everyone described as arrogant, reckless, and intimidating.

Jane had spent two evenings with him and had found someone who remembered his friends’ favorite foods, who bought her a specific drink just to make her feel welcome, who spoke about his mother with such deep, aching tenderness it almost hurt to witness.

She still could not believe she had almost walked away without seeing him again.

The morning after they first met, she had woken up early, seen him dead to the world on the sofa, and hesitated. She had considered waking him to say goodbye, but he looked so adorably peaceful, so unbothered by the world, that she hadn't wanted to disturb him. Then she had remembered she had a full day of filming ahead of her and had hastily left the note instead.

Now, sitting here watching the light catch his eyes, she realized with a jolt how incredibly close she had come to losing this connection entirely. It made her smile faintly into the aluminum can of her drink.

“What?” Ilya asked suddenly, his sharp gaze catching the exact shift in her expression.

Jane shook her head, the smile lingering on her lips. “Nothing.”

He narrowed his blue eyes immediately, a playful, challenging smirk tugging at his mouth. “That is never nothing.”

She laughed again, shaking her head. “I was just thinking that you are very, very different from what people say about you.”

Ilya leaned back against the cushions, looking thoroughly amused, his ego preening just a bit. “And what do people say?”

“That you are arrogant and incredibly difficult to deal with.”

He nodded solemnly, completely unfazed. “Accurate.”

Jane dissolved into laughter, and he immediately smiled back because he had clearly been waiting for that exact reaction. “But,” she continued softly, her brown eyes locking onto his, “they are wrong about a lot of things, Ilya.”

For a fleeting moment, Ilya did not answer. The easy, teasing expression faded slightly from his face, replaced by something much softer. Something raw, exposed, and almost vulnerable. Jane noticed the subtle shift instantly, but she possessed too much grace to push him for it. Instead, she lifted her can of ginger ale toward him in a silent offering.

“So,” Ilya finally said after they calmed down from another round of laughter, “other than the very artistic movie you made, what else is in your… filo… filmo…?”

He stumbled slightly over the final word, his prominent brow furrowing sharply as if the English language failed him.

“Filmography,” Jane corrected gently, her tone completely devoid of judgment. “That’s the word. Don’t worry, I almost stumbled over it too when I first learned it.”

Ilya looked slightly embarrassed, his jaw tightening for a fraction of a second, but he offered her a small, grateful smile when she chose not to make a big deal out of the slip. Jane had already noticed that he absolutely hated struggling with words. It was as if his immense, razor-sharp pride simply could not accept that there were some things in this world he could not immediately master on the first try.

“Well,” she continued, shifting her weight to settle more comfortably against the plush sofa cushions, “after that first movie, I really wanted to focus more on my actual studies back in Montreal. Because of that, most of the projects I did afterward were smaller supporting roles. Nothing even close to as emotionally intense as that one.” She thought for a quiet moment, then let out a sudden laugh. “I kind of became a Canadian holiday actress, you know?”

Ilya raised a sharp eyebrow, looking thoroughly amused. “Holiday actress?”

“Yes! I kind of fell into typecasting for a little while,” Jane laughed again, the sound light and infectious. “You know? Those actresses who are known for doing strictly specific movies. In my case it was holiday related. Christmas movies, New Year movies, Valentine’s Day movies, Halloween movies… basically, whatever holiday is coming up on the calendar, suddenly there’s a script about it on my desk.”

Ilya smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “That is a very specific career choice.”

“I know,” she shook her head at the absurdity of it. “But honestly, it was so much fun.” She took another slow sip of her Canada Dry before continuing, her eyes brightening as she walked him through it. “There was this Valentine’s movie I did. The plot followed three entirely different couples who were at completely different stages of their lives. There was an older couple, people in their late sixties, who had already been together for decades. Then there was a chaotic couple in their early twenties who were still trying to figure things out. And another couple somewhere right in between.”

She smiled fondly as she remembered the long nights of filming it.

“The interesting part about the script was that their stories never actually crossed over. They weren’t friends, they didn't know each other. They just existed in the same city around each other. They would end up sitting in the exact same café at different times, walk right past each other on the crowded street, or have these tiny, unnoticed interactions without ever realizing they were connected. It was kind of a beautiful commentary on how everyone has their own complex love story happening simultaneously around everyone else.”

“That actually sounds nice,” Ilya admitted, his tone surprisingly soft as he absorbed the concept.

“It really was. It was a romantic comedy, though, and it was filmed entirely in French, so I completely understand why you didn’t catch it in theatres.”

Ilya nodded with mock seriousness. “Yes. My extensive French knowledge begins and ends with saying hello.”

Jane laughed clearly. “Which was a very impressive hello, by the way.”

He gave her a deeply suspicious, narrowing look, knowing entirely well that she was teasing his terrible pronunciation, but a massive grin broke through his tough exterior anyway.

“Then right after that, I did a Christmas movie,” Jane continued, adjusting her legs beneath her. “That one was actually filmed in English.”

“A Christmas movie?” Ilya asked, his voice dripping with amusement. “You really did become a holiday actress.”

“Apparently.” She shrugged her shoulders playfully. “In that one, I played the long-lost daughter of a single father. He had absolutely no idea he even had a child until my character’s mother tragically passed away. She found him, actually. The movie was mostly about him adjusting his entire selfish life to suddenly being a father to a teenager.”

She paused, waving her hand slightly as she tried to explain the thematic structure properly. “It was supposed to be about the father-daughter relationship, but honestly, the movie focused heavily on his character arc. It was kind of like those classic Christmas stories where a bitter person has to completely change their life because they are too focused on corporate work and forget what actually matters in the world.”

“So, a twist of the classical story of The Christmas Carol?” Ilya asked knowingly.

“Yes! Exactly like that,” Jane blinked in surprise. “Right, so imagine that exact narrative, but just without the literal ghosts. Just a regular man realizing he has spent his entire adult life working and missing out on everything that actually matters.”

Ilya nodded thoughtfully, his gaze dropping to his hands for a brief second before returning to her.

“It was actually a remarkably sweet movie,” Jane said. “But it was very, very Canadian.”

“How?”

She laughed out loud. “The locations, the hyper-specific slang, everything really. I think someone who isn’t from Canada would notice the vibe immediately.”

Ilya looked at her with a glint of pure amusement dancing in his eyes. "So, you are saying I would not understand this movie?"

"I’m saying you would probably spend half the runtime asking why every single character on screen is constantly apologizing to each other for no reason."

He laughed loudly at that, because judging from his immediate expression, he knew she was probably absolutely right about her guess.

"And that was pretty much the bulk of my acting career," Jane finished with a dramatic exhale, gesturing between them. "A very depressing indie movie, a Valentine’s romance, and a cozy Christmas movie."

Ilya tilted his head to the side, examining her face. "A very strange, chaotic combination."

Jane smiled warmly. "I know. My dramatic range is apparently limited to severe emotional suffering, romantic love, and pure holiday cheer."

"That is impressive."

She raised an eyebrow, a teasing smirk on her lips. "Are you making fun of me, Rozanov?"

"No," the sheer, sudden weight of sincerity in his deep voice made her breath hitch in her throat. "I’m really not."

For once, there was absolutely no cocky teasing or defensive humor hiding behind his words.

"I think it’s incredibly impressive," he repeated, his blue eyes holding hers with a steady intensity that made the rest of the penthouse seem to fade away. "You can make people feel things. That is a real gift."

Jane looked down at her half-empty drink, her heart hammering against her ribs, suddenly entirely unsure of what to do with the weight of the compliment. Because coming from anyone else in her industry, it might have felt like a simple, polite piece of small talk.

But coming from Ilya, it felt entirely different. It felt real. And she was rapidly starting to realize that this feeling was becoming a very, very dangerous pattern.

“Anyway,” Jane continued, trying to steer her racing thoughts back to solid ground, “after those holiday movies, during my senior year at McGill, I mostly focused on finishing my studies. I graduated, and then I finally decided it was time to try something a little more mainstream.”

Ilya listened attentively, his large hands resting securely around his can of ginger ale, his gaze never wavering from her face.

“And I landed this show,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the window and the city outside. “It’s a new production from Amazon Prime. It’s a high-stakes cooking drama, and it’s actually my first time ever doing a television series, so the whole transition has been… interesting.”

“A cooking drama?” Ilya repeated, tilting his head, his deep voice rolling over the words.

“Yeah.” Jane smiled, her enthusiasm slipping back through her initial nervousness. “It’s filmed right here in Boston, actually. The plot revolves around a young woman who finishes culinary school and immediately starts trying to build her career in fine dining. But it’s not just about cooking pretty plates. The director really wanted to explore what happens behind the scenes in the industry—especially the immense pressure, the burnout, and the mental health issues that come with it.”

She paused, taking a breath as she thought about how to explain the darker undercurrents of the script.

“The head chef she works under is supposed to be incredibly talented, a literal genius, but he's also deeply toxic and manipulative. The whole point of the series is showing the cutthroat environment, the obsession with absolute perfection, and how that environment systematically affects people's minds. It’s not just about making food look beautiful for food critics. It’s about what happens to the human beings making it.”

Ilya nodded slowly, his expression turning serious, clearly interested in the concept of high-pressure environments. He understood obsession, and he certainly understood the cost of perfection.

“They also really liked the fact that I speak four languages,” Jane added, a small, modest shrug accompanying her words. “So, the writers are planning to integrate that part of my actual background into the character, too. Not in a random, gimmicky way, but to show how she fluidly moves between different cultures in international kitchens and how that shapes her identity.”

She smiled slightly, a bit of relief touching her lips. “If the pilot works and the audience likes it, the network has it structured to run for at least three seasons, so technically I have some solid job security for the next few years.”

“Three seasons?” Ilya asked, genuinely impressed by the scale of the commitment.

“The showrunner is actually aiming for seven, if we get renewed,” Jane corrected.

“Seven?”

Jane laughed, the absurdity of show business hitting her. “Yeah. He has this massive, sweeping plan where every single season metaphorically focuses on one of the seven cardinal sins.”

Ilya raised a sharp, thick eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “The cooking show about sins?”

“When you say it out loud like that, it sounds completely ridiculous.”

“It sounds interesting,” he countered, but he sounded more skeptically than sure.

“It is interesting,” Jane admitted, leaning her head against the back of the sofa. “He has a lot of brilliant ideas. The real question is always whether all of those conceptual ideas actually work in execution. Sometimes even the most fascinating scripts just don't land with the audience.”

She continued talking for another few seconds, completely caught up in explaining the mechanics of the television industry, before she suddenly froze mid-sentence. Her brown eyes widened in sudden, stark terror. “Oh my God.”

Ilya blinked, his amused expression morphing into confusion. “What?”

“You cannot tell a single soul I just told you all of this,” she whispered fiercely.

The sudden, dramatic panic in her voice made him look at her in bewilderment. “Why?”

“Because it was told to me in absolute confidence by the executive producers!” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, leaning across the gap between the cushions. “I signed a massive, terrifying NDA, Ilya. If this leaks before the press release, I could literally get sued for millions of dollars.”

For a long, quiet moment, Ilya only stared at her wide, panicked face.

Then he laughed.

It wasn't the cocky, teasing laugh he usually utilized to unarm people, but a deeply warm, entirely genuine sound that echoed softly against the high ceilings of the penthouse.

Jane felt her face instantly heat up, a fierce blush spreading across her cheeks as she watched him smile at her with such unfiltered affection. She was incredibly grateful that he found her sudden, anxious rambling charming because, honestly, she was becoming painfully aware of how much of a total disaster she was around him tonight.

When had she foolishly convinced herself that sitting here felt entirely natural?

It did not. Nothing about Ilya Rozanov felt natural or easy. He made her incredibly nervous. He made her completely forget basic vocabulary. He made her talk entirely too much about things she shouldn't, and then left her to panic about everything she had said afterward.

And somehow, despite the absolute mess she felt like, he still looked at her like he loved every single second of it.

Ilya slowly lifted his can of Canada Dry toward her, his blue eyes holding hers steady in the low light. “Well,” he said softly, “here’s hoping for a very good first season.”

Jane managed a small smile and lifted her own can to meet his, her movements just a little bit clumsy under the weight of his gaze.

“Because,” he continued, his voice dropping to a low register that made her breath catch, his eyes never leaving hers, “I would really like to see a lot more of you in Boston.”

The words were simple. Almost casual on the surface.

But there was a raw, unfiltered honesty in his expression that made her heart skip. Because this was not a rehearsed line meant to slide a girl into his bed. It was just Ilya.

Real, grounded, and entirely present.

And somehow, that made it infinitely more dangerous.

Jane felt herself blushing harder, looking away for a brief second to catch her breath before bravely meeting his eyes again. “Yeah,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “It seems that I’m starting to really like Boston.”

Their cans tapped together with a metallic and for a long, heavy moment, neither of them looked away.

It was probably inevitable that Jane ended up letting Ilya take her to bed that night.

And, honestly, she had absolutely no regrets.

Ilya was, without a shred of exaggeration, the best lover she had ever had in her life. The sex itself was incredible, but it was not only because of how remarkably skilled he was, or how easily his massive, athletic frame completely overwhelmed hers.

It was because of everything that came with it.

It was the way he touched her like he actually cared about her. The way he paid close, intense attention to her every reaction, every sharp intake of breath, every little change in her expression. The way there was absolutely no rush, no lingering feeling that he was simply trying to get something quick from her before turning away.

There was tenderness and affection. There was a profound, unexpected connection that Jane had not anticipated when she had first walked into his penthouse.

And that was exactly what scared her.

Because when everything was finally over and the bedroom had gone completely silent, a small, defensive part of her started wondering if this was where the beautiful fantasy finally ended. Maybe he would ask her to leave. Maybe he would gently remind her that this had only ever been a fun, casual hookup. Maybe that was what this had always been to him, and she had been the one who had somehow derailed his usual routine the first night by literally calling her parents.

God, who does that?

Who calls their parents on FaceTime while in the apartment of a ridiculously attractive, famous man they had just met at a bar? Jane buried her face slightly into the plush pillow, her cheeks burning with embarrassment at the sudden memory. She could be so unbelievably, painfully awkward sometimes.

But Ilya did not tell her to leave. He did not create an inch of distance between them in the dark.

Instead, he simply shifted closer, wrapped his strong, heavy arms around her waist from behind, and pulled her flush against his chest. Like she belonged there. Like staying right by his side was the most natural thing in the entire world. And somehow, with his radiating warmth pressing into her back and the steady rhythm of his breathing slowly evening out against her neck, Jane fell asleep.

The next morning, she woke up completely surrounded by his arms. And she instantly smiled.

She realized then that she had been smiling a lot lately. A ridiculous, almost embarrassing amount, actually. She smiled when he laughed. She smiled when he ruthlessly teased her. She smiled when he looked at her like he genuinely, truly wanted her in his space. She smiled so much around Ilya that it almost felt strange, like she was meeting a lighter version of herself.

After they eventually dragged themselves out of bed, the two of them showered together, still laughing and playfully splashing water, teasing each other like they had known one another for years rather than just a couple of days.

Then, when they stepped back into the bedroom, Ilya surprised her by handing her a thick, heavy piece of clothing.

It was an official Boston Bears cardigan.

She looked down at the soft black and gold fabric, and her brown eyes widened when she saw the bold letters stitched across the back.

ROZANOV

81

She looked up at him, and the proud expression on his face immediately gave him away. He was trying to look nonchalant, leaning against the dresser, but that distinct, possessive little glint in his blue eyes was unmistakable. He liked seeing her wearing his name, marking her as his.

And, surprisingly, Jane realized that she absolutely liked it too.

Maybe she finally understood the appeal of all those boyfriend clothes she had seen girls wearing back in high school and university. At the time, she had never understood why someone would want to walk around in someone else's oversized, drowning hoodie or jersey. Now? Now she understood it completely. There was something strangely comforting, something deeply grounding, about carrying a little piece of someone else out into the world with you.

Especially when that someone was Ilya.

Then he surprised her yet again by immediately heading to the kitchen and making breakfast.

Blini. Authentic Russian pancakes.

Jane leaned against the counter, watching him move around the kitchen with an amused, incredibly fond smile. There was something so drastically different about him like this. At the crowded bar, he had been confident, charming, and full of that effortless, untouchable charisma everyone associated with a professional athlete.

This was different. This was Ilya standing over a hot stove, carefully flipping thin pancakes, looking entirely focused and smiling proudly because he had made something special for her. This version of him was almost boyish. And there was something so completely genuine about the gesture that she could not bring herself to say no.

Normally, Jane was incredibly careful with what she ate. Not in the unhealthy, dangerous way she had been when she was much younger and modeling, thankfully. Her mother had eventually stepped in and gotten her real help back then, finding her an incredible nutritionist and making sure she understood what taking care of her body actually meant. She had also gone to therapy to heal, and those old, destructive habits were long behind her.

But she was still a working actress who modeled occasionally. She still had to think about her career, her fitness, and her upcoming filming schedule for the Amazon Prime series. However, when Ilya plated the hot blini and looked up at her with that hopeful, almost shy smile, quietly waiting for her reaction, she found that she didn't care about any of it.

She cut a piece, brought it to her mouth, and took a bite, her eyes widening instantly. “Oh.”

Ilya’s broad shoulders tensed, and he immediately looked nervous, his eyes darting to the plate. “Oh?”

Jane looked at his stressed expression and burst into a bright laugh. “No, no! 'Oh' in a good way, Ilya. A very good way.” She took another eager bite, the sweet, buttery flavor hitting her tongue. “This is absolutely delicious.”

The massive wave of sheer relief that washed over his face was almost ridiculous for a man of his size. And Jane found herself smiling all over again. Because somehow, sharing a quiet breakfast with Ilya Rozanov in his kitchen, wearing his name on her back, felt just as deeply intimate as everything that had happened between the sheets the night before.

After they finished breakfast, Ilya leaned forward on his island stool, crossing his massive arms over his chest as he looked at her curiously, his blue eyes tracking her every movement. “So,” he asked, his deep voice slicing through the quiet hum of the refrigerator, “where exactly do you have to be today?”

Jane looked down at the dark swirl of her coffee, mentally calculating the hours on her call sheet. “No acting today,” she said, offering a small, relieved sigh. “Yesterday was already a long, grueling shoot. But I do have a sit-down interview for a magazine this morning, and then a couple of promotional photoshoots this afternoon.”

Ilya raised his thick eyebrows, clearly assessing the workload. “Your schedule seems very packed for a day off.”

Jane laughed, taking a small sip. “That’s usually how it goes in this industry. You take the work when it's there.”

He shook his head, looking thoroughly amused by her work ethic, before pushing himself up from the table. Standing at his full, imposing height, he stretched slightly. “Then I’ll drive you. Afterward, I have our mandatory morning practice at the rink anyway.”

Jane immediately waved her hand in front of her face, her cheeks dimpling. “No, no, there’s absolutely no need for that, Ilya. I can easily call a car and get there myself.”

“Please let me.”

Jane paused, her hand freezing mid-air. The words themselves were not what truly surprised her; it was the fact that they had come out of his mouth. It was the soft, entirely genuine cadence he had used to deliver them.

Slowly, Jane raised a sharp, teasing eyebrow. “The infamous Russian bad boy of Boston is actually saying please?”

Ilya’s lips instantly twitched into a familiar, wicked smirk. “What if I did?”

She smiled, completely unable to stop herself from leaning into the banter. “I might be rubbing off on you, Rozanov.”

The expression on his face changed in a heartbeat. That blinding, devastating confidence returned—the exact predatory charm she had witnessed when he first approached her at the bar before. He stepped away from the counter, closing the distance between them in slow strides until he was towering over her chair. Leaning down, he lowered his voice to a gravelly murmur right against the shell of her ear.

“Maybe you are,” he breathed, his hot breath brushing her skin and sending a violent shiver down her spine. “Considering how incredibly well you rubbed last night.”

Jane stared straight ahead for a fraction of a second, her brain momentarily short-circuiting. She knew exactly what he was trying to do. She knew that line was supposed to be deeply seductive, the kind of smooth, effortless filth that probably made dozens of women melt on the spot.

But instead, all she could do was burst into a sudden, uninhibited laugh.

Because it was just so ridiculous. It was so completely, undeniably Ilya.

The terrifying, intimidating NHL superstar who the entire sports world thought was an arrogant, untouchable menace was currently standing in his kitchen, looking far too pleased with himself because he had just dropped a terrible, corny sex joke over dirty breakfast plates.

And God help her, she loved it. She absolutely loved this version of him. The silly one. The boyish one. The version that didn't seem to feel the crushing weight of having to perform or impress a single soul.

Ilya looked genuinely offended at first when she burst out laughing, his chest puffing out slightly, but the stubborn pride only lasted a few seconds before his own lips betrayed him. A low, rolling rumble started in his throat, and he began laughing right along with her.

And that, Jane realized, was rapidly becoming one of her favorite things about him. The simple fact that they could be entirely ridiculous together. They could talk about heavy, dark topics, but they could also ruthlessly tease each other and laugh until their stomachs physically ached. Nothing felt forced between them. Nothing felt like a carefully managed PR relationship.

Eventually, they finally got ready to leave.

Jane reluctantly changed back into her tailored clothes from the night before, though Ilya’s massive, oversized Bears cardigan heavily helped disguise the fact that she was technically walking out into the Boston daylight in yesterday’s outfit. Ilya, meanwhile, slipped into a fresh set of clothes and looked entirely too smug when she securely buttoned his cardigan back up around her frame.

“You do know you have to give this back to me eventually,” he teased, tugging at the lapels as they walked toward the elevator.

She looked up at him, her brow furrowing in genuine confusion. “Why?”

“Because it’s mine.”

Jane shook her head, as she playfully said. “Nop, this is mine now. I am stealing it.”

He looked down at her, his blue eyes entirely serious, devoid of any playfulness. “It definitely looks infinitely better on you.”

And right on cue, there it was. The heat blooming across her cheeks. The blush.

It was one of the three things she seemed to constantly, helplessly do whenever she was within a five-foot radius of him. Blush, smile, and laugh. She was honestly starting to think Ilya Rozanov had somehow found a cheat code to her internal settings, forcing her to do all three every single time he looked her way.

The drive through the winding Boston streets was quick, filled with soft music and comfortable silence. When they finally pulled up to the curb of the brick studio building where her interview was scheduled, she unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to him.

“Good luck at practice,” she told him softly, her hand lingering on the door handle.

He offered her a warm, disarming smile. “Good luck with your interview, Jane.”

She gave him a final wave, stepping out into the crisp morning air and watching his sleek car pull away into the city traffic before she finally turned toward the building's entrance.

And only then, as the cold air hit her face, did the crushing reality of everything hit her all at once.

She was currently walking into a high-profile media interview wearing last night’s clothes under an oversized hockey cardigan, immediately after spending the night in bed of the biggest, most notorious playboy in the NHL.

She was actively getting involved with Ilya Rozanov. The exact man every sports article, blog, and standard warning told people to stay far away from. The volatile, reckless man she had somehow just ended up giggling with over homemade blini.

It was incredibly reckless. It was messy. It was completely, entirely unlike her.

Jane had spent her entire adult life being meticulous. She had always thought three steps ahead about her public image, her budding career, and how the industry perceived her every move. She had carefully built herself around being responsible, controlled, and deeply careful.

And yet, around Ilya, all of that rigid armor seemed to simply evaporate into thin air.

Because somehow, this felt natural. Being entirely silly with him came naturally. Laughing at his terrible jokes came naturally. The burning, undeniable want to see him again came naturally.

And as she pushed open the heavy glass doors of the studio, that was probably the most terrifying part of all. Because Jane had a distinct feeling that, for the first time in a very long time, she was no longer trying to control the steering wheel of her own life.

She was simply letting herself enjoy exactly where the current was taking her.

Chapter 4: If This Was A Movie

Jane kept a perfectly polite, polished smile pinned to her face throughout the entire interview, but by this point, she could practically predict the journalist's next question before it was even fully uttered. It felt almost identical to every single press junket she had done back in Montreal, with the only real difference being that she was now delivering her carefully rehearsed answers in English instead of French.

What did it feel like to be an actress of Asian descent navigating North America? How exactly did her mother’s intense background in classical ballet influence her own artistic career? How many languages did she speak fluently? Why on earth had she chosen to learn those specific languages? How had she accidentally started acting?

She answered every single query with the same infinite, graceful patience she always did, primarily because she truly understood why people were curious. Her background was highly unusual, and she was self-aware enough to know it.

A Japanese-Canadian actress who spoke four distinct languages fluently, the only daughter of a former elite prima ballerina, someone who had completely stumbled into the film industry while quietly studying syntax and phonetics at McGill University. It was exactly the kind of story that magazine journalists loved to print.

Still, after years of hearing endless variations of the exact same talking points, she felt a profound surge of gratitude when the conversation finally shifted somewhere entirely different.

Boston.

The interviewer leaned forward, asking how she was adjusting to her new temporary home, what local spots she had managed to visit, and whether she was genuinely enjoying her time in the city so far. Jane laughed softly, explaining with an easy wave of her hand that she had not had much of an opportunity to explore the historic streets yet due to her grueling filming schedule, but that she was absolutely loving Boston so far.

“I especially like the—” she began, before the words completely caught in her throat.

The interviewer noticed the sudden, abrupt halt immediately. Her eyes flicked down to the heavy, oversized knit cardigan swallowed up around Jane's frame, her lips twitching into an amused, knowing smile. “I was actually going to say, you seem to be enjoying Boston quite a lot already, judging by your rather specific choice of clothing today.”

Jane instantly felt a hot, fierce wave of blood rush straight to her face. She let out a slightly breathless laugh, her fingers brushing defensively over the soft fabric of the black and gold Boston Bears cardigan as if she could somehow magically shield the massive, stitched number 81 on the back from the journalist's view.

“Oh, I’m just a massive hockey fan,” she said quickly, her media training kicking in as she executed a flawless, incredibly smooth redirection. “My dad actually played hockey back at McGill University, so the sport has honestly always been a massive part of my life growing up.”

The interviewer raised a sharp, highly amused eyebrow, clearly noting the incredibly obvious dodge but proving to be kind enough not to ruthlessly push a rising star on her private life. “Ah, so you’re a legacy student then? Following right in your father’s footsteps at McGill?”

Jane smiled, the tension leaving her shoulders as she steered them back to safe territory. “Yeah, it just felt entirely natural to go there. McGill is known as the Harvard of Canada, and I was so proud to be accepted and eventually graduate from there. Especially because my life became a little bit chaotic once the acting projects started becoming a much bigger, full-time part of it.”

She laughed lightly, shaking her head. “But yes, hockey has always been a staple in my family. In fact, my mom actually became entirely obsessed with it after she officially retired from the stage. She desperately needed a new hobby to channel all that intense energy into, and somehow, she ended up becoming an even more hardcore hockey fan than my dad.”

The interviewer laughed warmly. “I imagine competing with a former prima ballerina’s level of dedication is nearly impossible.”

“You do not ever want to compete with a prima ballerina,” Jane replied immediately, a genuine, wide grin breaking across her face. “They are utterly terrifying human beings when they are focused.”

That earned another bright laugh from the journalist before the conversation smoothly transitioned into a deeper discussion about her mother's legacy.

“Speaking of your mother, Yuna Hollander nee Sato was once the celebrated prima ballerina of the Montreal Ballet Company. She now teaches elite ballet seminars all across Canada, and you yourself heavily trained in classical ballet when you were younger. Do you think that specific, rigorous background heavily influenced your current approach to acting?”

Jane considered the question for a long, thoughtful moment, her eyes dropping to her lap before she answered with complete sincerity.

“It definitely influenced me, but maybe not in the exact way people tend to expect,” she said softly. “It taught me extreme discipline, endless patience, and gave me a deep understanding of just how much grueling, unseen work goes into perfecting a single piece of art. My mom always told me I had a natural talent for ballet, and I still practice at the barre and keep up with my flexibility now, but I knew very early on that I never wanted to pursue it professionally.”

She smiled fondly, memories of endless rehearsals, bleeding toes, precise corrections, and her mother’s fierce, blinding dedication flashing through her mind. “It just never felt completely natural to my soul. Acting did. Which is funny, because acting was never actually part of the grand plan. It just kind of beautifully happened to me.”

The interviewer smiled warmly, closing her notepad. “And now you are starring in a major, high-profile television production right here in Boston.”

“Exactly,” Jane replied, her fingers tracing the edge of Ilya's sleeve. “Life is remarkably strange like that.”

The interviewer thanked her genuinely for her time, ending the session with one final, welcoming sentiment. “Well, we are very happy to have you here in Boston, Jane.”

Jane smiled back, and for the first time all day, she realized she actually, truly meant it when the exact same thought echoed in her own mind. Boston was still completely unfamiliar to her. She still had an incredible amount to learn about the winding layout of the city, the local culture, and the strange, high-stakes sports world she had accidentally stepped into.

But somehow, in a week, Boston had already managed to hand her a giant, fiercely protective Russian hockey player, two stolen nights of uninhibited laughter, and a heavy cardigan with his name proudly written across her back.

And looking out the window at the bustling city streets, she had a distinct, heart-stopping feeling that this was only the absolute beginning.

After the interview concluded, Jane made her way to the Dior studio for her next appointment. The moment she walked through the doors, she greeted everyone with a genuine, warm smile, personally thanking the assistants, photographers, stylists, and makeup artists who welcomed her.

She had learned very early in her career that being kind, professional, and present with the people behind the scenes mattered just as much—if not more—than knowing how to stand in front of a camera. A photo shoot was never only about the person being photographed; it was the collaborative work of dozens of talented people making every artistic detail come together.

She changed into the series of couture outfits prepared for the shoot, sat patiently through hair and makeup, and allowed the team to transform her into the polished, ethereal version of herself that luxury magazines lived for. As brushes moved expertly across her face and stylists adjusted every pin and fabric fold, Jane found her mind drifting back to her mother.

When she had joked during the interview that no one wanted to compete with a former prima ballerina, she had not been exaggerating in the slightest. After retiring from the stage, Yuna had simply redirected that terrifying, crystalline discipline into raising her daughter.

There was a very specific reason Jane had always been at the top of her classes while still maintaining a grueling ballet training schedule on the side. There was a reason she had learned four languages fluently, studied linguistics at one of the top universities in Canada, and somehow managed to build a legitimate acting career while navigating it all.

Her mother did not believe in doing things halfway.

And now, while continuing to hold high-stakes ballet seminars and masterclasses across Canada, Yuna was also Jane’s primary manager. She was, quite frankly, the best manager in the world. Because truly, nobody could argue with a former prima ballerina. They were utterly, beautifully terrifying.

It was likely that unique combination of relentless discipline, meticulous preparation, and her mother’s fierce, unwavering determination that had propelled Jane to accomplish so much in such a short window of time. In only five years as an actress, she had already landed three critically acclaimed films, a major television series, and several prestige sponsorships with the biggest luxury brands on the planet.

Now, she was one of the global faces of Dior.

She represented Miss Dior, appearing in sweeping international campaigns and wearing bespoke Dior designs during high-profile premieres and public appearances. She also held a significant partnership with Cartier, another house that fit naturally with the refined, graceful image that had been carefully curated around her.

The combination of her striking features, her multicultural background, and the composed persona she carried made her inherently appealing to luxury houses that wanted a brand ambassador who represented both timeless tradition and modern evolution.

And, of course, there was the legacy of her mother.

Before Yuna Hollander nee Sato had become world-renowned as a ballerina, she had modeled for several of these same luxury houses. There was something almost poetic about the brands returning years later for her daughter—the second generation of Sato women—carrying that same signature elegance.

As Jane posed in front of the camera, subtly shifting her expression and posture with every rapid-fire click of the shutter, she wondered if all of this counted as nepotism.

In a way, she conceded, maybe it did.

She knew she had benefited from her family name, from the heavy doors that swung open simply because people recognized and respected her mother’s hard-won achievements. She would never pretend otherwise. Being the daughter of a famous ballerina came with undeniable advantages that most other aspiring actors simply did not have.

But it was also true that no one could stay in those rooms for long without proving they actually belonged there.

Her mother could open the door, but Jane still had to walk through it. She still had to memorize thick scripts, spend hours deconstructing characters, master foreign languages, train, rehearse, and give every single ounce of her soul every time the cameras turned on. A famous mother might get a person’s attention for a moment, but it could never carry a weak performance.

The photographer complimented her expression, asking her to turn slightly toward the afternoon light, and Jane followed the direction effortlessly. Years of ballet had taught her how to control every single movement, every angle, and every subtle shift of her body.

Maybe that was why the transition into acting had never felt as impossible as everyone assumed it would be. Ballet had taught her how to tell a complex story without a single word. Acting simply gave her more ways to do it.

By the time the shot finally wrapped, Jane thanked everyone again, smiling as she looked at the final selects being reviewed by the team on the monitors. She still found it strange sometimes, seeing her own face represented beside names she had grown up seeing in the pages of luxury magazines.

But then again, a few years ago she never would have imagined she would become an actress at all.

And she definitely never would have imagined that one lonely, serendipitous night in Boston would lead to a Russian hockey player giving her a comfortable, oversized cardigan with his name stitched on the back.

Life, she decided as she headed to the changing room, had a very strange, very wonderful sense of humor.

Over the next few weeks, the initial romantic blur of Jane’s first week in Boston gave way to the relentless, grinding routine of a television production. Her days became a blur of early morning call times, hours in the hair and makeup trailer, and long shoots for the Amazon Prime series.

Between filming, there were promotional obligations: Meet-and-greets where she smiled until her cheeks ached, signing headshots for people who loved her films or were eagerly anticipating her new show.

When she had a rare few hours to herself, she tried to establish some semblance of a normal life. She went on quiet missions to explore her new neighborhood, systematically trying out different local cafés.

She discovered quickly that finding the right spot was a process of trial and error; there was a trendy, minimalist espresso bar near her apartment that she absolutely detested for its pretentiousness and bitter roasts, and a quiet, unassuming family-owned diner three blocks away that served a surprisingly decent drip coffee and became her secret sanctuary.

Still, the transition was jarring. For the last four years, Jane had lived in her own apartment condo in Montreal while studying at McGill. Montreal was a safety net—it was a familiar, beautiful city, and crucially, it was only a comfortable two-hour drive away from her parents' home.

During those four years, her world had been perfectly contained. Her filming locations, her university campus, her friends, and her family were all secluded to the same city. If she ever felt overwhelmed, home was just a brief drive down the highway.

Boston, however, was entirely new territory. The city had a completely different energy—the people were louder and brasher in a way that occasionally intimidated her demure and controlled demeanor. For the first time in her life, everything back home felt incredibly far away. The familiar French signs, the gentle cadence of Montreal streets, and the immediate comfort of her parents’ presence were on the other side of a border.

Whenever the loneliness crept in, though—whenever the weight of the new city felt like too much and she desperately craved comfort—she found herself reaching for the closet.

She had the cardigan.

By now, the thick knit fabric no longer smelled like Ilya’s expensive cologne or the subtle scent of cedar from his penthouse. The physical trace of him had faded, replaced by the neutral scent of her own detergent, but the weight of it hadn't changed. Slipping it on after a grueling ten-hour shoot, drowning in the oversized sleeves with the name ROZANOV and the number 81 resting against her back, provided a strange, grounding solace. It was a tangible anchor to a night where she hadn't had to perform for anyone.

She also found an unexpected amount of comfort in their daily text messages. When they had first exchanged numbers, she had half-expected their communication to fade into sporadic, late-night propositions. And while there was certainly a healthy amount of that—Ilya was incredibly forward, and their late-night, high-tension sexting sessions frequently left her staring at her phone with a burning blush and a racing pulse—their conversation had grown into something much more substantial.

They had fallen into a rhythm of checking up on each other throughout the day. She would text him complaining about the director’s bizarre creative choices or a particularly terrible cup of Boston coffee, and he would respond with dry, blunt complaints about his coaching staff, or absurd updates about the absolute chaos Kozlov and St-Simon were causing in the locker room.

Between Ilya’s grueling away-game schedule traveling across the continent and her own demanding filming blocks, they hadn't actually managed to see each other in person since that breakfast. But the digital tether kept the warmth of that morning alive.

It made her hopeful. She knew Ilya’s reputation, and she knew he was undeniably, intensely interested in getting her back into his bed, he made that fact explicitly clear in his sexting. But Jane secretly hoped for so much more.

A soft smile was still lingering on her lips when a harsh, metallic clang shattered the quiet sanctuary of her thoughts.

“You are fundamentally missing the entire point of visual storytelling!”

Jane was abruptly snapped completely out of her comfortable daydream by the raised, sharp voices of the director and the screenwriter standing directly in front of her. They were practically toe-to-toe next to the main kitchen set, entirely oblivious to the exhausted crew members waiting on them.

They were locked in yet another one of their exhausting, circular debates about the narrative direction of the season. This was the premiere block of the series, and the chosen thematic anchor was Pride—the first of the seven cardinal sins.

The director, a fiercely pretentious visionary named Marcus Vance, slammed his hand onto the stainless-steel prep table. “It needs to be a slow, agonizing burn, Chloe! The audience shouldn't be spoon-fed. The Pride should be discovered subtly, intricately, through the psychological subtext of the dishes she chooses to cook. For the premiere, she shouldn't just make a dessert. She should make a Croquembouche. A towering, structurally precarious pyramid of choux pastry bound together with spun sugar. It is the literal architectural manifestation of human hubris! It’s a dish that demands absolute perfection, a monument to the chef’s own belief that they can conquer gravity and time. When she refuses help from her fellow-chef to build it, that is her Pride blindly guiding her toward an inevitable collapse.”

The screenwriter, Chloe Laurent, let out a loud, mocking scoff, throwing her hands in the air. She was a realist, seasoned by years of network television, and she was currently looking at Marcus as if he had entirely lost his mind.

“A Croquembouche, Marcus? Are you serious?” Chloe practically screamed, stepping directly into his personal space. “You are an idiot if you think a single mother watching this at nine p.m. on a Thursday is going to look at a cream puff and think, ‘Ah, yes, human hubris!’ They’re going to think she’s just being a stubborn bitch! We are making a television show for Amazon Prime, not a thesis film for Cannes! We need cliches. We need sharp, relatable humor to break the suffocating tension and make this character accessible to the general public. Art is fantastic, Marcus, it really is—but only as long as the general population actually tunes in to watch it! If we don't give them a recognizable trope or a laugh to latch onto, they’ll switch over to a reality baking show in five minutes.”

“You want to cheapen my frames with cheap Hollywood gags!” Marcus shouted back, his face turning an angry, blotchy red. “If we rely on sensationalized garbage, we lose the artistic integrity of the culinary world!”

“And if we follow your absurd, over-cultured snobbery, we won't even survive to see season two because our ratings will be in the toilet!” Chloe yelled right back, her voice echoing off the studio rafters.

The crew members in the background were intentionally looking away, shuffling equipment around to avoid eye contact. Jane internally sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. They had stopped right in the middle of a high-pressure kitchen scene for this utter stupidity, wasting valuable daylight and dragging out an already exhausting fourteen-hour shoot.

Recognizing that nobody else was going to intervene, Jane forced a calm, diplomatic smile onto her face and stepped firmly between the two screaming creators.

“Marcus, Chloe, listen to me for a second,” Jane said, her voice steady, carrying a natural authority that immediately made both of them pause their shouting match.

She knew she had to help them find a middle ground—one that wouldn't be too overly intellectual and ostracize the majority of their casual viewers, but at the same time, wouldn't be so cheapened and sensationalized that it ruined the core principles of the show.

She looked at Marcus first. “Marcus, your concept with the dishes is brilliant. The Croquembouche is visually stunning and a perfect metaphor for Pride. But Chloe is absolutely right. The metaphorical meaning behind the pastry needs to be explicitly communicated to the audience, otherwise, the message is entirely lost in translation. We can bridge that gap by using the exact cliches and humor Chloe is advocating for.”

She turned to Chloe, offering a reassuring nod. “What if we write a scene where the traditional, old-school French pastry instructor is criticizing my character’s technique? We can use a classic, slightly exaggerated comedic trope there—the hyper-dramatic, screaming chef who treats a fallen cream puff like a national tragedy. While he’s berating her, she can deliver a sharp, witty monologue defending her creation. She can confidently explain to him—and to the audience—that her dish isn't just dessert; it's a testament to her superiority over the kitchen. That way, the viewers get the humor, they get the accessible entertainment value, but the deeper, symbolic meaning of the dish is clearly explained.”

Chloe quieted down, her confrontational posture relaxing as she mentally mapped out the dialogue. “A comedic clash with a traditionalist... yeah. That actually works. It breaks the ice but keeps her arrogance front and center.”

“It... bridges the high-concept art with the accessibility,” Marcus looked down at the table, begrudgingly processing the compromise. “Fine. I shall allow it.”

“Great,” Jane said, maintaining her polite smile while internally screaming with relief. “Now that we have a plan, can we please get back into position and actually finish filming this scene before the crew goes into overtime?”

The director and writer muttered hurried agreements, scurrying back to their respective monitors. As the hair and makeup team rushed back out to touch up Jane's powder, she took a deep breath. She couldn't wait for this day to be over, so she could finally crawl into her apartment, slip into Ilya's cardigan, and text him about the absolute circus she was dealing with.

When she felt a sharp buzz against her thigh a few minutes later, Jane internally groaned. She squeezed her eyes shut as the makeup artist brushed a fresh layer of translucent powder across her nose. She wanted to take a fucking nap, not do more work. If her manager mother or an executive producer was texting her about another schedule change, she was going to lose it.

But the heavy annoyance evaporated the second she slipped the phone out and saw the name on the screen.

Ilya.

Ilya: Just landed. Back in Boston for a home stand. We're here for a couple of weeks. Can I come over tonight?

Jane’s lips immediately curved into a wide, helpless smile, her exhaustion completely forgotten.

Jane: Yes. Absolutely. Text me when you're leaving the rink.

The rest of the shoot passed in a blur of newfound adrenaline. The second the director finally called a wrap, Jane practically bolted to the changing trailer, threw on her comfortable clothes, and headed straight for her apartment.

She didn't just want to see him; she wanted to do something real for him. Ilya had been living out of suitcases and eating bland hotel room service for weeks on end. Knowing he’d be craving a genuine taste of home, Jane stopped by a local market, grabbed fresh ingredients, and got straight to work in her kitchen.

She decided on Shchi. It was a classic Russian staple—a comforting, everyday cabbage soup made from rich beef broth, fresh green cabbage, tender potatoes, and carrots. As the pot began to simmer, filling the apartment with a savory, deeply nostalgic aroma, Jane found herself humming a soft melody. She threw his oversized black-and-gold cardigan over her shoulders, the heavy fabric instantly making her feel grounded.

She was mid-stride, dancing a little ballet twirl across the hardwood floor toward the counter, when the loud buzz of the apartment doorbell rang.

What? Sue her! She had missed him like crazy.

Jane hurried to the door and pulled it open, her breath catching slightly at the sheer size of him standing in her hallway. Ilya’s familiar, cocky smirk was already plastered on his face, but it instantly turned dark and predatory the second his blue eyes flicked down to see his own name and number wrapped snugly around her body.

"Hi," she breathed.

Before she could even finish the syllable, Ilya stepped into the apartment, caught her by the waist, and effortlessly hoisted her right off her feet. Jane let out a small, surprised squeak as her feet lost contact with the floor. Instinctively, her arms wrapped tightly around his broad neck, and her legs locked around his hips, clinging to him like a lifeline.

An involuntary purr rumbled in her throat at just how effortlessly manly he looked as he backward-kicked the heavy apartment door shut behind him, the latch clicking into place with a definitive thud. He didn't waste a single second, instantly carrying her straight down the hall to find her bedroom.

Except, there was one tiny problem: Ilya had absolutely no idea what the layout of her rented apartment looked like. He confidently marched down the narrow hallway, heavily turning left directly into what turned out to be a walk-in linen closet.

Jane burst into a fit of breathless giggles against his neck. "Wrong way, Rozanov. Backtrack."

"Shut up," Ilya muttered, a rough laugh vibrating in his chest as he pivoted, navigating around a decorative corner plant and bumping his shoulder against the frame of her actual bedroom door.

The clumsy, imperfect trial process had both of them laughing helplessly, stripping pieces of clothing away in a desperate rush until they finally tumbled onto her mattress in a tangled, breathless heap.

One marathon of intense, passionate sex later, the apartment had grown dark. Jane reluctantly slipped out of bed, throwing the cardigan back over her bare skin as she headed to the kitchen to reheat the Shchi. Luckily, years of ingrained kitchen safety from her dad meant she had turned off the heat under the massive pot right before answering the door, so the soup was perfectly preserved, and her kitchen was not on fire.

As she stirred the steaming broth, she felt a pair of eyes on her. She looked up to see Ilya leaning against the kitchen doorframe, black fitted trackpants slung low on his hips. The usual arrogant, defensive armor he wore out in the world was completely gone. Instead, he was looking at her with a remarkably warm expression—as if he were genuinely stunned that she had taken the time out of her exhausting day to cook him traditional Russian food.

Jane watched him, a tender ache forming in her heart. Looking at the subtle shadows under his eyes, she realized that despite his fame, his millions, and the thousands of screaming fans, there really weren't many people in Ilya's life who actually took care of him. To the world, he was just an enforcer, a machine, a piece of entertainment.

But now, he had her.

Maybe it was entirely crazy that she was feeling this deeply, this profoundly about Ilya after only three real meetings. But standing there in her kitchen, she couldn't help but think about that French romantic comedy she had filmed back in Montreal. Her character in that movie had fallen in love at first sight.

That movie had been given a beautiful, happy ending.

And looking back at Ilya as he walked over and slid his arms around her waist from behind, pressing a soft kiss to the back of her neck, Jane secretly hoped with everything she had that this story would have a happy ending, too.

Chapter 5: Happier

Svetlana had always expected that one day she would marry Ilya.

It had simply been the future she imagined ever since they were children. Their parents had introduced them to one another with that expectation lingering unspoken in the background, and from that moment on they had become inseparable.

They had grown up side by side, survived the suffocating reality of Russia together, laughed together, mourned together, and when they became teenagers, they had even started experimenting with each other. Kissing had turned into fumbling curiosity, curiosity into sex, and before long they had settled into an easy friendship with benefits. Whenever neither of them felt like going out searching for a hookup, one would simply call the other.

It had always been simple.

She had been there after every nightmare Grigori inflicted on him. After every bruised ego his older brother left behind. After every crushing expectation from coaches who saw him as nothing more than a future hockey player. She had held him together after Irina died, watched him slowly crumble beneath grief, and done everything she could to keep him from shattering completely.

And Ilya had done the same for her.

When life brought them to Boston—his first time there, her return after spending most of her formative years back in Moscow—it had felt almost inevitable that they would gravitate toward one another again. In a foreign country, they had each other. Someone to complain to in Russian. Someone who understood every cultural reference without explanation. Someone who remembered home, even if neither of them really wanted to go back.

If someone asked whether she loved Ilya, Svetlana would answer yes without hesitation. She loved him with all her heart.

If they asked whether she was in love with him... No. That answer came just as easily.

It would have been so simple to fall in love with him. Ilya was gentle in ways most people never noticed. He was endlessly playful, kind to a fault, protective of everyone he cared about, and beneath all the bravado was a boy who wanted nothing more than to be loved.

But that love had never bloomed inside her.

Sometimes she wondered whether there was something wrong with her. Maybe it had started long before she had ever met Ilya. Maybe it had begun while watching women around her in Russia become wives and mothers, their worlds shrinking until nothing remained except caring for everyone else. Maybe she had watched too many bright women become shadows of themselves. Maybe she had watched too much of Irina disappear piece by piece beneath Grigori's cruelty.

Perhaps, even as a little girl, she had quietly decided that she would never allow herself to love anyone enough to hand them that kind of power.

Then she had met Ilya.

And somewhere along the way, another thought had taken root. If she married him... He would never hurt her. He would never silence her laughter or ask her to become smaller. He would let her remain loud, reckless, and adventurous. He would never steal the light from her the way Grigori had stolen it from Irina.

It was such a selfish dream.

Because she knew Ilya. She knew that despite all his fears, despite his abandonment issues and the walls he built around himself, he still dreamed of falling in love. Truly, hopelessly, and beautifully in love.

And she knew something else. If she walked into his penthouse today and asked him to marry her—told him it would make getting permanent residency easier, that eventually citizenship would follow, that it would finally free him from always looking over his shoulder whenever Russia called—he would probably say yes.

Not because he wanted to marry her, but because she was asking. Because he trusted her that much. And because he loved her enough to mistake gratitude and affection for something that could sustain a lifetime.

Svetlana had never hated herself more than she did for knowing she had considered it. Even if only for a fleeting, selfish moment.

But at least, they still had each other. And they would always have each other.

Which was why, when she finally walked through the doors of the Boston Bears arena after weeks of Ilya being away on road trips, Svetlana was in an unusually good mood. She had deliberately kept her visit a secret, wanting to surprise him after the game.

The plan had been simple enough: wait until the final horn, sneak down before the crowd became too chaotic, catch him completely off guard, and then drag him back to his penthouse. It had been far too long since they'd seen each other, and if she were being completely honest with herself, she had every intention of ending the night tangled in bed with the best lay she had ever had.

Her eyes followed the familiar rhythm of Ilya's skating as effortlessly as they always had. He looked good. Relaxed and more energetic than he had in months. She smiled to herself, already imagining the expression on his face when he spotted her waiting outside the locker room.

Then, during the second intermission, the jumbotron swept across the spectators, lingering on children waving homemade signs and elderly season ticket holders wearing faded jerseys from decades past. Svetlana barely paid attention, her focus still fixed on the ice below, waiting for the horn that would send the players back out.

Then the camera stopped and a cheer erupted through the arena.

On the massive screen appeared Jane Hollander.

Svetlana recognized her instantly thanks to Sasha.

Alexander—Sasha to everyone who loved him—had dragged her through enough French-Canadian cinema during one of their ridiculous holidays in Ibiza that she had ended up recognizing half the country's young actors. Out of the three of them, Sasha was the only one fluent in French to genuinely enjoy those films without subtitles, and he had insisted Jane Hollander was someone to watch.

"She's good," he had said. "Give her five years and she'll be everywhere."

Svetlana had agreed. Even then, the young actress had possessed an undeniable screen presence. Outside the films, she'd occasionally appeared on magazine covers wearing Dior or Cartier, always immaculate, every strand of dark hair perfectly in place. She looked less like a celebrity and more like some fairy-tale princess brought to life—soft-spoken, graceful, and polished beyond belief.

Everything Svetlana wasn't.

Svetlana lived in tight sequin dresses, late nights, vodka shots, and lipstick that was usually half gone by midnight. Meanwhile, Jane Hollander looked like she belonged at royal galas. They could not have been more different.

So, it wasn't particularly surprising that Canada's latest sweetheart was attending a hockey game. Canadians practically came out of the womb knowing the rules of hockey.

No. What made Svetlana sit bolt upright was what happened next.

Jane rose from her seat with a shy smile as the crowd applauded. Instead of waving at the camera, she turned around and proudly pointed both thumbs toward the back of her cardigan.

81

ROZANOV

The entire arena exploded.

Wolf whistles echoed through the rink as the broadcast immediately cut to the Boston Bears’ bench. Cliff Marlowe was doubled over laughing, one hand thumping Ilya hard between the shoulder blades. Hammersmith shouted something that was completely drowned out by the noise of the crowd, while Kozlov and St-Simon joined the chorus of whistles, their grins stretching from ear to ear.

In the middle of all of them stood Ilya.

His ears had gone bright red. He tried to glare at his teammates, but the attempt lasted barely a second before the smile broke through. It wasn't his usual smirk. It wasn't the cocky grin he wore after scoring, nor the teasing smile he reserved for reporters.

This one... This one was different. It was helpless. Unrestrained. Joyful.

His eyes sparkled as he looked up toward the VIP box where Jane still stood, laughing bashfully while hiding part of her face behind one hand. She smiled at him and he smiled back, as the rest of the world seemed to disappear for those two.

Svetlana felt something inside her heart break.

She had known Ilya almost her entire life. She had seen him after Irina's death. After championship losses and victories alike. She had seen every version of Ilya Rozanov there was to see.

Or so she had believed.

Because she had never... Not once... Seen him look like this.

There was a light in him. A warmth she hadn't witnessed since he had been a little boy running through Moscow with snow in his hair while Irina chased after him, laughing. Grigori had crushed that light. Or at least, Svetlana had always believed he had.

Yet there it was again. Alive and brighter than ever.

It wasn't the smile of a man flirting, nor the grin of a player enjoying the crowd. It was the instinctive happiness of someone whose favorite person had just appeared. Someone who forgot there were twenty thousand people watching because only one person mattered.

Svetlana slowly sank back into her seat.

Around her, the arena continued roaring as the game resumed and the players skated back into position. She barely noticed. Instead, she watched Ilya one last time as he adjusted his gloves, stealing another glance toward Jane before settling into the faceoff circle.

And then it finally struck her.

Ilya Rozanov was in love.

And for the first time in her life, Svetlana realized there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

The realization left a bitter taste in her mouth. She didn't hate Jane—it was impossible to hate someone who had managed to put that light back into Ilya’s eyes. But she hated the sudden, blinding clarity of her own position. For years, she had used Ilya as her human shield against the crushing weight of Russian societal expectations, running wild through Europe because she always had a safe harbor to return to.

Now, the harbor was closed.

Ilya was anchoring himself to someone else, and Svetlana was suddenly adrift in the deep cold, entirely on her own.

By the time she made her way down into the belly of the arena, the post-game chaos was in full swing. The heavy concrete corridors outside the locker room hummed with the vibration of a city that had just punched its ticket to the Conference Finals. Team officials, security guards, and media personnel with heavy cameras surged past her, but Svetlana moved through the crowd like a ghost, her leather jacket slung over one shoulder, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her dark jeans.

She knew exactly where to wait—the quiet alcove near the private exit, away from the main press scrum where the reporters were currently trying to get Marleau and Ilya to analyze the upcoming series against the Admirals.

But she never made it there.

Svetlana cursed under her breath as she was swept along with the sea of people slowly filtering toward the exits.

What had possessed her to come incognito? She should have accepted one of the tickets to the VIP box Ilya always left available for her whenever she wanted to attend a game. She would have been out ten minutes ago instead of shuffling through thousands of celebrating fans.

Then again... She grimaced. Had she been in the VIP box, she probably would have been sitting only a few seats away from Jane Hollander. Perfect, graceful, elegant Jane Hollander.

No. Perhaps blending into the crowd had been the better choice after all.

By the time she finally slipped free of the arena and circled toward the players' entrance, the cool air had helped calm her thoughts—if only slightly. The security guards spotted her immediately.

"There she is," one of them laughed. "Long time no see, Sveta."

She smiled, genuinely this time. "What can I say? Work has kept me busy."

They waved her through without another question. Of course they did. Half of them had known her since she was a child, back when her father had still been the goalie for the Boston Bears. The other half had watched her grow up alongside Ilya, showing up at practices, sneaking into empty rinks, and somehow always finding trouble.

To them, she was practically family.

She stepped into the players' parking lot... and immediately frowned. The familiar black Porsche was gone. "Damn it."

She had missed him. The first liners had already left. Only now were the second and third lines beginning to trickle out of the arena, laughing loudly as they walked toward their cars, still riding the adrenaline of the victory. None of them noticed her standing off to the side in the shadows.

"...Told you we'd beat Florida."

"We're going all the way this year."

"Conference Final, baby!"

One player slapped another across the shoulders. "We're celebrating tonight."

That earned a chorus of cheers.

Someone snorted. "Our captain's already celebrating."

The entire group burst into knowing laughter.

"I still can't believe Captain's dating Jane fucking Hollander."

"I know, right?" another replied. "She's ridiculously gorgeous."

"Honestly?" a third chimed in. "I never thought she'd be his type."

"No?"

"Nah. She's... I don't know." He searched for the words. "She's one of those girls you bring home to your parents."

A teammate barked out a laugh. "The kind your parents immediately tell you to marry."

"No," another corrected, grinning. "She's the kind your parents adopt as their daughter, and somehow you end up becoming the son-in-law."

That earned another explosion of laughter. Svetlana's smile had long since disappeared.

Someone scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully. "I mean... wasn't Captain always into party girls?"

"Yeah."

"I swear he always had that Russian hookup."

Svetlana felt heat rush into her face. She knew they were talking about her. They didn't know she was standing barely twenty feet away, shielded by the dark frame of an SUV.

"Guess Captain finally decided to settle down."

"Well..." another player shrugged. "When you're settling down, you go for someone like Jane Hollander." He gave an easy, thoughtless shrug. "Not... you know... that Russian girl."

"Exactly."

"They're both insanely hot," someone else added with a chuckle. "Difference is one's the girl you party with..."

"...and the other's the woman you marry."

The laughter that followed hit harder than Svetlana expected. Not because they had insulted her. Objectively, they hadn't. None of them had called her ugly. None of them had even been trying to be cruel. They had simply... categorized her.

Fun, temporary, and forgettable.

While Jane Hollander had somehow become synonym to wife. Someone you built a home and future with.

Svetlana stared at the dark pavement for several long seconds, then, before any of them could notice she had been there at all, she quietly turned around and walked back toward the street.

For the first time in years... she no longer felt like she knew where she belonged.

Svetlana left the arena feeling humiliated in a way she had never experienced before. And the worst part was that she had no one to blame. Not even the players who had laughed in the parking lot.

Because, if she was being honest with herself, none of them had actually lied.

Ilya and Svetlana had never been anything. Not truly. They had loved each other, yes. They had cared for each other more deeply than almost anyone else in their lives. They had shared childhoods, secrets, pain, and every ugly part of themselves they never showed the rest of the world.

But they had never been lovers. Not in the way that mattered.

For years, Svetlana had told herself that she was his backup plan. That if everything went wrong, if Russia became too much, if they needed to escape, they would always have each other. She would have Ilya, and Ilya would have her.

He had been her safety net, a soft place to land.

Except now she realized something painful. She had never been his backup plan. She had only been making him hers.

Because Ilya had moved forward. Slowly, painfully, and sometimes clumsily. But he had moved forward. He had built a life in Boston. A real one. He had fought for his career and earned his captaincy. He had built friendships, a home, a reputation, and a future. He had not settled down because he was waiting for her.

He had not been the one frozen in the past.

She had been.

Svetlana stopped walking for a moment, the irony almost making her laugh. If Ilya had heard those players talking about her like that, he would have been furious. He would have punched someone. Not only because they had insulted her, but also because they had reduced something important into something meaningless.

Their history and everything they had survived together was too important to allow others to dismiss so easily. Ilya would have defended her. The same way he always had.

And yet... she had been the one reducing it.

She had spent years telling herself that what they had was enough while refusing to admit what it actually was. A friendship. A profound, once-in-a-lifetime friendship. Not a placeholder, or an escape route. Not a convenient future where she could avoid making difficult choices. She had taken something precious and turned it into a safety net because she was too afraid to stand on her own.

And suddenly, the guilt became so much heavier than the humiliation.

Because she realized something else. She did not know Jane. She did not know how Jane had come into Ilya's life. She did not know the stories they shared, the conversations they had, the little things that made him smile like that.

And why would she? She had not been there. Not really.

She had been there in Sochi because her father had insisted. She had been there during the worst moments because circumstances had forced them together. But whenever she came to Boston... she came looking for Ilya when she wanted something familiar and easy. A night of laughter and a good fuck.

And then she left again. For another city, seeking the thrill of the next party.

She had spent years running from the same darkness that haunted Ilya, except instead of alcohol and anger, she drowned hers in music, strangers, and endless nights where she did not have to think. Because thinking meant remembering. Russia and its expectations. The future she never wanted and the fear of being trapped.

So, she ran.

And somewhere along the way, she had stopped being the person who saved Ilya from loneliness and became another person who relied on him to save her.

Her steps slowed as she reached her apartment. She barely remembered the walk there. The streets had passed without her noticing. The lights, the sounds, the people around her—all of it had blurred together while she was trapped inside her own thoughts.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside. Only then did she realize she had made it home.

Svetlana closed the door behind her and leaned against it, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. For years, she had convinced herself that she was protecting Ilya. That she was the one person who would never leave him. But maybe she had been doing the opposite. Maybe she had been holding onto him because she needed him.

And Ilya deserved better than that.

He deserved a friend who wanted him happy, even if that happiness did not include her. He deserved someone who encouraged him to heal, to find love, to build something beyond the pain Russia had left behind. Not someone who kept him tied to the past because she was afraid to face her own.

Svetlana wiped a hand over her face and stared into the dark apartment.

"I'll do better," she whispered to herself.

Svetlana did not give herself time to overthink it.

That, perhaps, was the first good decision she had made in a long time. Because if she sat there and analyzed every possible meaning behind what had happened, every feeling twisting painfully in her chest, she knew she would find a way to avoid doing the one thing she needed to do.

So, she picked up her phone and typed: I was at the game tonight.

She stared at the message for a few seconds before continuing: I’m happy for you. You played well. Congratulations, Captain.

A pause. Then, after a moment of hesitation: I can’t wait to meet your Canadian sweetheart.

She almost deleted that last part. Almost. But she sent it.

Of course, there was no response that night. She had not been expecting one. The Bears had won, the team was celebrating, and judging by the way his teammates had talked, Ilya was most likely in Jane Hollander’s bed.

Or maybe she was in his.

Anyway, Svetlana was happy that he had someone there for him.

The reply came the next morning. He had thanked her and sent her an address so they could meet. So, he could introduce her to Jane. She stared at it for several seconds, confused. Out of all places she did not expect a Russian tea shop.

Svetlana looked at the front of the store in bewilderment. She had spent part of her childhood in Boston. She had grown up around Russian immigrants, stores, restaurants, and Russian communities. And yet somehow, she had never known about this place. Maybe it had opened after she left, or maybe she had simply never looked. She has come to realize that she had always been too busy running toward the next party to pause and look at what’s around her.

When she stepped through the door, the scent hit her instantly. They clearly made their tea via a traditional samovar, and God, did it bring Sveta straight back to her years in Moscow. The heavy, rich smell of concentrated black tea and hot metal was so intensely nostalgic it caught in her throat.

Moving past the counter, she found Ilya already sitting in a private booth. For a moment, seeing him there almost felt normal.

Almost.

She smiled and leaned down to kiss his cheek like she always had. "Hi."

"Hi."

But then she stopped herself from sliding into the seat beside him. That space belonged to someone else now. It was such a small thing. And yet it felt like acknowledging something she had spent years refusing to see.

So, she sat across from him instead. "Where is your sweetheart?"

The reaction was immediate. Ilya laughed—not his usual teasing laugh, nor the confident one he used with reporters or teammates. This one was softer, almost boyish in its sweetness.

Svetlana had known Ilya since he was a child, and she could not remember the last time she had seen his blue eyes lit up like that.

"Her shoot got extended," he explained, smiling. "But she'll be here soon." Then his expression turned serious. "Sveta."

She raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Be kind."

She stared at him, feeling insulted. "Why would I not be?"

Ilya hesitated. Because apparently, after all these years, the great Ilya Rozanov could still become awkward when feelings were involved. "Because..." He scratched the back of his neck. "I told her about you."

Svetlana's eyebrow rose higher. "You told your girlfriend about me?"

"Of course."

"And?"

"That you're my best friend."

She waited. "And?"

A faint flush appeared on his face. "And that we used to... you know."

Svetlana stared incredulously as she realized what he meant.

"You told your girlfriend that your best friend used to be your hookup?" Ilya looked away and she could not help it; she burst out laughing. "I still cannot believe you somehow managed to land Jane Hollander with that attitude."

His blush deepened, and that only made her laugh harder. Then something clicked and she narrowed her eyes. "Wait. You do know who she is, right?"

Ilya frowned. "Of course, I know who she is."

"No, I mean before you met her."

He looked confused and Svetlana sighed in disappointment. "You didn't."

"What?"

"You genuinely did not know how famous she is." She shook her head. "Oh my God."

"And you did?"

"Yeah, well, Sasha recommended her to us."

“He did?” Ilya repeated like a moron, then he froze. "Sasha knows about her?"

Svetlana covered her face. "You idiot."

"What?"

"You absolute idiot. Most of her movies are French and Sasha is the only one of us who speaks French. Of course, he knows about her." She shook her head. "How an uncultured hockey player like you managed to get a university graduate, actress, and apparently everyone's favorite Canadian sweetheart..."

"I am cultured,” Ilya looked offended. But then, unexpectedly, his expression softened. “By being extremely lucky."

The answer caught her off guard. Because there was no arrogance in his tone and he did not deflect his honesty by using humor. Svetlana looked at him for a moment. And suddenly, she understood.

"You love her."

Ilya did not even hesitate to reply. "So much."

The certainty in his voice hurt more than she expected. Not because she wanted to take that away from him, but because she had never heard him say something with that much hope.

"I'm afraid, though," he admitted. "I haven't even told her."

"What?" Svetlana asked confused.

He looked embarrassed. "We haven't really... established anything."

Svetlana blinked startled. "You mean you are doing all of this, and you haven't asked her to be your girlfriend?"

Ilya shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. It just happened."

That sounded so much like him. The man who could command an entire hockey team but somehow became helpless when it came to emotions.

"We've been acting like we're together," he continued. "And I've never wanted something more in my entire life. Not even hockey."

He smiled faintly. For a moment, Svetlana just looked at him. Then she sighed.

"Then stop being an idiot and tell her."

Ilya laughed, and Svetlana found herself smiling too. It was then that she heard the bell above the tea shop door ring, and she turned her head.

Jane Hollander looked like she had walked straight out of a Cinderella movie. There was something effortless about her. She wore a light blue coat that made her look almost ethereal, her dark hair falling neatly around her shoulders, and her cheeks were slightly flushed from the cold Boston air.

Svetlana suddenly understood why the media loved her. It was not just that she was beautiful; it was that she looked like she belonged in a fairy tale.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," Jane said as she approached the table, offering an apologetic smile. "The shoot ran longer than expected."

Ilya stood up and Svetlana almost rolled her eyes. The man who could ignore reporters, coaches, and entire arenas suddenly remembered his manners, behaving accordingly. All it took to tame the Russian menace was a polite Canadian.

Who would have thought?

Jane slid into the seat beside him and turned toward Svetlana with a bright smile. "I'm Jane. It's so nice to finally meet you."

She extended her hand. The gesture was so formal that Svetlana almost laughed. It felt less like meeting her best friend’s girlfriend and more like signing a business contract. Still amused, Svetlana shook her hand. "It's nice to meet you too."

And then she paused. Because Jane had not spoken in English. That had been Russian.

"You speak Russian?"

Jane's smile widened. "Da."

Svetlana stared in disbelief, before switching to Russian as well. "Really? How did that happen?"

Jane laughed softly. "Yeah. I studied linguistics. And my mom trained at a ballet academy in Saint Petersburg when she was younger, so Russian was always part of my life."

That immediately caught Svetlana's attention. A Russian ballet academy. Of course. The discipline required for that was brutal. It demanded years of dedication, sacrifice, and an almost terrifying level of commitment.

"Your mother must be impressive," Svetlana praised.

Jane smiled warmly. "She is."

The answer came so naturally, so proudly. Svetlana could hear the love in her voice.

But before she could ask more, she noticed something else. Ilya was not listening. Not to them, not to the conversation. He was staring at Jane's face. More specifically... her cheeks.

Svetlana frowned slightly. Then Ilya reached for a napkin. He wet it with some water from his glass. And before either woman could react, he started wiping Jane's cheek.

Svetlana's eyes widened, while Jane looked completely confused. "What are you doing?"

"Getting rid of this."

"This?"

"Your makeup."

Jane looked at him incredulously. "My makeup?"

"Why did you hide your freckles?" There was such genuine offense in his voice that Svetlana almost laughed. "I love your freckles."

Jane stared at him. "Ilya."

"No, seriously." He continued wiping with a determined pout. "They are beautiful."

Svetlana covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. Of course. Of course, he could not say the words he was too afraid to say. He could not tell Jane that he loved her, but apparently, declaring his devotion to her freckles was perfectly acceptable.

Never change, Ilyusha. Never.

"Ilya, stop."

"No."

She reached for his wrist, but he dodged her with the ridiculous confidence of someone who had spent his entire life annoying people.

"Why did you hide them?" Ilya asked again, and Svetlana laughed at the whine in his tone.

"Because it was for a scene."

"But your freckles are better."

"It's literally just makeup."

"No. Justice for the freckles."

Jane stared at him in disbelief. "Justice for the freckles?"

"Yes."

"Ilya, what the fuck are you talking about?"

Somehow hearing Jane Hollander—the elegant, polished Canadian actress everyone thought was impossibly perfect—curse at Ilya made her seem even more real. And somehow, it made everything even funnier.

"I need to talk to your director," Ilya continued, completely serious. "This is unacceptable."

"My director?"

"Yes. There needs to be justice."

Jane finally managed to grab the napkin away from him. "You are ridiculous."

"And your director is wrong."

"You are impossible."

"But you like me."

The confidence of that statement should have annoyed Svetlana. Instead, it made her smile. Because Jane did not deny it. She only rolled her eyes with a fond smile of her own.

And that was when Svetlana realized something. This version of Ilya... the playful one, the ridiculous one, the boy who smiled with his whole face and acted like he did not hold the wight of the world on his shoulders—she had seen glimpses of him before. With her. With the people he trusted.

But with Jane? It was effortless. It was not something he had to fight for. It was simply who he was around her.

And suddenly, all the resentment she thought she might feel disappeared. There was no bitterness or jealousy left. Only relief. Because this was what she had always wanted for him. She wanted him happy with someone who was in love with him. And if Jane Hollander was the person who brought that light back into him... then Svetlana was grateful they had found each other.

She watched them bicker over freckles and makeup, watched Ilya smile in a way she had not seen in years, and she realized that maybe she could learn something from him. Maybe one day she would be brave enough to stop running. Maybe one day she would let herself search for something beyond parties and temporary happiness. Maybe one day she would find her own person.

But for now? She was happy for Ilya. And that was enough.

Chapter 6: La La Land

@ParisMemories1948

I've lived in Paris for over fifty years, and this morning I walked past Cartier on Rue de la Paix.

I had to stop.

[photo]

— The front façade of Cartier Paris, with an enormous window campaign featuring Jane Hollander dressed in a sleek black Dior gown. Around her neck rests an extraordinary Cartier ruby necklace, accompanied by matching ruby earrings, stacked ruby bracelets, and several diamond-and-ruby rings. Her dark hair is swept into a classic bun, allowing the jewels to frame her face. The campaign is elegant, timeless, and unmistakably inspired by old Cartier advertisements.

I know the younger generation probably recognizes this beautiful young woman as actress Jane Hollander.

But for me...

I immediately saw her mother.

Years ago, Yuna Sato modeled for Cartier before becoming the magnificent prima ballerina we all admired. She was elegance personified. I remember saving magazine clippings because I thought she was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen.

Now I find myself standing on the same Paris street looking at her daughter carrying that legacy.

Time really is extraordinary.

What a lovely gift.

Comments:

@oldparislady

WAIT.

THAT'S YUNA SATO'S DAUGHTER???

No wonder she looked familiar.

 

@theatregrandpa

Take away the freckles and she is almost the image of young Yuna.

 

@GenZCinema

Who's Yuna?

 

@theatregrandpa

You are making me feel ancient.

 

@oldparislady

Just one of Montreal Ballet Company's greatest ballerinas.

People used to line up for her performances.

 

@historyofballet

She was extraordinary.

One of the finest Claras I've ever seen.

 

@cinemagirl22

WAIT.

Jane's mom is famous??

 

@MapleLeafFilms

Very famous.

Just in a completely different artistic world.

 

@oldschoolfashion

Not only was she a ballet star, but Yuna Sato also modeled for Cartier and Dior.

Seeing her daughter return to Cartier feels strangely full circle.

 

@fashionhistory

Luxury houses LOVE generational campaigns.

This is a beautiful example.

 

@GenZCinema

I genuinely had no idea.

I only knew Jane from movies.

 

@canadianfilmfan

Hell no, old man.

She's not "Yuna's daughter."

She's Jane Hollander.

Canadian sweetheart.

Winner of Best Performance in a Drama Film at the Canadian Screen Awards.

 

@theatregrandpa

And today I learned something new.

Congratulations to her.

 

@LetterboxdLover

She's one of Canada's biggest rising actresses right now.

 

@moviebuff94

She was incredible in Les Cœurs Croisés.

 

@filmclubgirl

She's filming that new Amazon series in Boston too.

 

@oldparislady

Does she dance as well?

With a mother like Yuna, I imagine she must.

 

@balletstudent

She trained in classical ballet growing up.

Didn't become a professional ballerina though.

 

@historyofballet

That explains the posture.

I always wondered why she carried herself like a dancer.

 

@cinemagirl22

WAIT THAT'S WHY SHE MOVES LIKE THAT???

I thought it was just acting.

 

@MontrealArts

Yuna raised her with ballet discipline.

Jane chose acting instead.

 

@oldschoolfashion

The elegance suddenly makes perfect sense.

 

@CanadianScreen

The freckles make her look entirely different from her mother, though.

Without them, the resemblance is almost startling.

 

@frecklefanclub

DO NOT TAKE AWAY THE FRECKLES.

THEY ARE PERFECT.

 

@ParisMemories1948

The freckles are entirely Jane.

The eyes are entirely Yuna.

 

@GenZCinema

That is... actually a beautiful way to describe it.

 

@vintagevogue

I love when older generations tell stories like this.

I would've never known.

 

@theatregrandpa

And I would've never known she became an award-winning actress.

Seems we all learned something today.

 

@canadianfilmfan

Everyone in Canada loves Jane.

 

@fashionarchive

Mother for ballet.

Daughter for cinema.

Both for Cartier.

Poetry.

 

@Dior

An icon raised another icon. ❤️

 

@Cartier

Some stories are timeless.♦️

---

The Quiet Rise of Jane Hollander: How Three Small Films Made Canada’s Newest Star

By Élodie Marchand | Cinéma Aujourd'hui

Before she became the face of Dior and before Cartier draped her in diamonds and rubies on the Place Vendôme. Jane Hollander was simply another university student at McGill trying to start her linguistics degree.

Unlike many young actors whose careers begin with carefully orchestrated publicity campaigns or blockbuster franchises, Hollander's résumé is remarkably small. She has appeared in only three feature films before landing her first leading television role, yet those performances alone established her as one of the most respected young actresses in Canadian cinema and earned her the Canadian Screen Award for Best Performance in a Drama Film before the age of twenty.

What is perhaps most remarkable is that each film belongs to an entirely different genre.

One is devastating.

One is quietly romantic.

One is unabashedly sentimental.

Yet all three reveal the same defining quality that critics have repeatedly associated with Hollander's work: extraordinary emotional restraint.

Film One

Untitled (French: Sans titre)

Director: Luc Beaulieu
Language: French
Genre: Psychological Drama
Role: La Fille ("The Girl")

There are very few films whose title audiences deliberately avoid saying aloud. Luc Beaulieu's Sans titre is one of them. Officially translated as Untitled, the film's name is less a title than an artistic statement. Its theatrical posters featured nothing more than a pale gray background interrupted by a single blank line where the title should have been, an intentional absence that immediately signaled the audience would not be given the comforts of convention.

Beaulieu explained that decision repeatedly during the film's press tour. He refused to give the story a conventional title because, in his words, he did not want "to give a name to something that so often takes people's own."

The same philosophy extended to the film's protagonist.

Jane Hollander's character is credited simply as La Fille—The Girl. She is never given a name, almost nothing is revealed about her past, and the audience is offered no defining tragedy, diagnosis, or traumatic event to explain what they are witnessing. Instead, the film follows an ordinary eighteen-year-old university student as she quietly, methodically, and almost clinically researches different methods of ending her own life.

The central question is never why she wants to die, but rather why viewers instinctively believe they are owed an explanation in the first place.

Throughout the film, La Fille continues living what appears, from the outside, to be an entirely ordinary existence. She attends university lectures, shops for groceries, studies at cafés, rides the métro, and exchanges polite conversations with classmates, cashiers, and professors. Nothing about her outward appearance suggests an impending tragedy. Between these mundane moments, however, she spends her evenings researching mortality with unsettling precision, comparing methods, reading medical journals, making lists, and weighing possibilities with the detached concentration of someone studying for an examination.

Beaulieu intentionally refuses to guide the audience toward a single interpretation. There are no flashbacks explaining childhood trauma, abusive relationships, financial hardship, or hidden illnesses. Every narrative shortcut commonly used to justify suicidal ideation is deliberately withheld. As a result, viewers are forced to confront an uncomfortable reality: sometimes suffering exists beyond explanation, and sometimes the people struggling most are those who appear outwardly ordinary.

That creative decision made Hollander's performance extraordinarily demanding. With almost no dialogue explaining her internal state, she was tasked with communicating an entire emotional landscape through silence, posture, routine, and microscopic changes in expression.

Much of the film lingers on her face for extended, uninterrupted takes, allowing the audience to search desperately for answers that never arrive. Hollander resists every temptation to dramatize the role, delivering a restrained, deeply internal performance that makes even the smallest smile or hesitation feel monumental.

Perhaps the film's boldest decision arrives in its final sequence. After spending nearly two hours accompanying La Fille through her carefully planned preparations, the audience is never shown whether she ultimately follows through. The ending cuts away before any definitive answer is given, leaving viewers suspended between hope and despair. It is an ending that has been debated for years, but Beaulieu always maintained that revealing her fate would undermine the entire purpose of the film.

She was never meant to be one specific person.

She was meant to be anyone.

That artistic vision transformed Sans titre from a conventional psychological drama into one of the most discussed Canadian films of its generation. Critics praised its refusal to sensationalize suicide or reduce mental illness to a tidy narrative, while mental health organizations commended the film for illustrating that depression does not always have an obvious face or a single identifiable cause.

For Jane Hollander, Sans titre became a career-defining debut. At just eighteen years old, she received widespread critical acclaim for carrying a film that relied almost entirely on restraint rather than spectacle, culminating in her winning Best Performance in a Drama Film at the Canadian Screen Award. Many critics still regard her portrayal of La Fille as one of the finest debut performances in modern Canadian cinema.

Film Two

Les Cœurs Croisés

Director: Amélie Bouchard

Language: French

Genre: Romantic Comedy / Ensemble Drama

Role: Élise Martin

Following the overwhelming critical success of Sans titre, most industry observers assumed Jane Hollander would spend the next several years building a career almost exclusively around emotionally devastating dramas. It is a familiar trajectory for young actors who break out through prestige cinema: once audiences become convinced that someone excels at suffering, they are rarely given the opportunity to do anything else.

Hollander surprised everyone.

Rather than accepting another psychologically demanding role, she pivoted in the opposite direction with Les Cœurs Croisés, a French-language Valentine's Day romantic comedy directed by Amélie Bouchard. On paper, the premise sounds comfortably familiar—three couples, three different stages of love, and one city connecting them all—but Bouchard approached the genre with considerably more restraint than audiences had come to expect.

Instead of weaving the relationships together through increasingly improbable coincidences, she allowed each story to exist entirely on its own. The characters unknowingly move through the same city, Montréal, brushing past one another without ever realizing it. One couple leaves a neighborhood café moments before another arrives. A florist unknowingly prepares bouquets destined for all three relationships. Two strangers briefly pass each other on a snow-covered sidewalk, never exchanging so much as a glance. Their lives never truly intersect, yet together they create the impression of an entire city quietly experiencing love in all its different forms at the same time.

Within that larger tapestry, Hollander plays Élise Martin, a doctoral student whose meticulously organized life begins to unravel after unexpectedly falling in love at first sight with Thomas Gervais, played by Julien Roy. Having spent years working overseas with humanitarian organizations, Thomas returns to Montréal for what is supposed to be a brief visit before accepting another assignment abroad. Meeting Élise forces both of them to confront feelings they had never felt before.

What distinguishes Les Cœurs Croisés from more conventional romantic comedies is its refusal to manufacture unnecessary conflict. There are no jealous ex-partners, no dramatic misunderstandings that could be solved by a single honest conversation, and no grand betrayals designed solely to create tension before the inevitable reconciliation.

Élise and Thomas communicate remarkably well throughout the film. They are honest with one another almost from the very beginning. Their obstacle is not a lack of love, but the simple reality that both have spent years building lives they refuse to abandon.

Thomas is preparing to leave Canada once again, determined to continue humanitarian work that gives profound meaning to his life. At the same time, Élise has finally earned the academic fellowship she has spent years pursuing.

Neither is willing to ask the other to sacrifice a lifelong dream, and that quiet conflict becomes the emotional heart of the film. Rather than asking whether love can overcome every obstacle, Les Cœurs Croisés poses a far more mature question: can two people love each other deeply without expecting the other to surrender everything they have worked for?

For Hollander, the role could not have been more different from Sans titre. Where La Fille communicated almost entirely through silence and restrained physicality, Élise is expressive, passionate, and wonderfully alive. She speaks quickly when she's excited, laughs easily, loses her train of thought in the middle of conversations, and wears every emotion openly. The performance possesses an effortless warmth that immediately disarms both Thomas and the audience, making it almost impossible not to understand why people are naturally drawn toward her.

Much of that success rests on Hollander's remarkable chemistry with Julien Roy. Their relationship never feels heightened for the sake of cinematic romance. Instead, they flirt the way real people flirt—awkwardly interrupting one another, laughing at private jokes, and finding comfort in ordinary routines rather than extravagant declarations.

Some of the film's most memorable sequences involve nothing more dramatic than wandering through Montréal after accidentally taking the wrong métro exit, debating which neighborhood bakery serves the best pastries, or lingering over coffee because neither wants the conversation to end. Those quiet moments give the romance a lived-in authenticity that many larger studio productions struggle to achieve.

Critics were particularly impressed by Hollander's comic instincts, noting how naturally she balanced humor with emotional vulnerability without ever allowing either to overwhelm the other. For audiences whose only previous exposure to her had been the harrowing stillness of Sans titre, the transformation was almost startling.

It became immediately clear that her extraordinary debut had never been the product of being confined to a single emotional register. Instead, Les Cœurs Croisés revealed an actress with remarkable range, equally capable of anchoring one of Canada's bleakest psychological dramas and one of its most heartfelt modern romantic comedies.

Film Three

A Christmas Carol

Director: Marc Gagnon

Language: English

Genre: Christmas Drama

Role: Lily Harper

Unlike prestige dramas or ambitious independent films, Christmas movies rarely receive significant attention from critics. They are often dismissed as sentimental, predictable, and designed more for seasonal comfort than artistic merit. Few ever enter conversations about memorable performances or thoughtful screenwriting.

A Christmas Carol quietly became one of the rare exceptions.

Directed by Marc Gagnon, the film takes loose inspiration from Charles Dickens' classic novel while removing every trace of its supernatural framework. There are no ghosts, no time travel, and no miraculous overnight transformations. Instead, the story asks a far more grounded question: what happens when someone is suddenly forced to confront the family they unknowingly left behind?

That someone is Daniel Harper, a successful corporate executive whose life revolves around board meetings, quarterly reports, and carefully maintained routines. His world is irrevocably interrupted when seventeen-year-old Lily Harper arrives at his office with devastating news. Her mother has recently passed away, and after sorting through old documents, Lily discovered the identity of the father she had never met. With no immediate family left to turn to, she has come looking for the only parent she has left.

From that premise, the film becomes less a Christmas movie than an intimate story about learning how to become a family. Daniel is not portrayed as a cruel or neglectful man; he simply never knew Lily existed. Parenthood is thrust upon him overnight, forcing him to navigate seventeen years of missed birthdays, forgotten milestones, and memories that can never be recreated. The holiday season serves as the backdrop for their growing relationship, but the emotional core of the film lies in watching two complete strangers slowly discover what it means to be father and daughter.

Although Daniel undergoes the film's most visible transformation, it is Jane Hollander's performance as Lily that quietly grounds every emotional beat. Rather than presenting her as the endlessly optimistic teenager so often found in holiday films, Hollander gives Lily a complicated emotional landscape. She is hopeful enough to seek out her father, yet guarded enough to expect disappointment. She longs for the family she never had, but years of unanswered questions have left scars that cannot simply disappear because Christmas is approaching.

One of the film's most memorable scenes arrives midway through the story. While unpacking a box of keepsakes that belonged to Lily's mother, Daniel discovers a handmade Christmas ornament she created in kindergarten. Carefully hanging it on the tree, he smiles and quietly admits that he wishes he could have been there to watch her make it.

Lily looks at the ornament for several long seconds before answering.

"You didn't miss making it."

She pauses, her voice steady.

"You missed me."

The line consists of only six words, yet it became one of the film's defining moments. Hollander delivers it without accusation, anger, or melodrama. There are no raised voices or emotional outbursts—only the quiet resignation of someone who accepted that truth years ago. It is precisely that restraint that makes the scene so heartbreaking, allowing the audience to feel the weight of seventeen lost years without the film ever needing to explain them.

Critics praised A Christmas Carol for resisting the excessive sentimentality that often defines the holiday genre. While the film ultimately embraces hope and reconciliation, it never pretends that forgiveness erases pain or that fractured relationships can be repaired overnight. Instead, it argues that family is built through patience, honesty, and the willingness to begin again, even after years of absence.

For Hollander, the role represented yet another dramatic shift in tone. Following the emotional austerity of Sans titre and the romantic warmth of Les Cœurs Croisés, she demonstrated an ability to disappear into an entirely different genre without sacrificing authenticity. Lily Harper could easily have become little more than a narrative device to facilitate Daniel's redemption. Instead, through Hollander's understated performance, she emerged as the emotional heart of the film—the person whose quiet resilience gives the story its lasting emotional power long after the Christmas decorations have been packed away.

An Actress Who Refuses to Repeat Herself

Looking back at Jane Hollander's filmography, what becomes immediately apparent is not simply the quality of her performances, but the remarkable unpredictability of her choices. At a stage in her career when many young actors intentionally seek similar roles to establish a recognizable screen persona, Hollander has consistently done the opposite. Each project feels like a conscious effort to avoid repeating herself, as though she views every new script as an opportunity to explore an entirely different emotional landscape.

Her first three films could hardly be more distinct. One is an austere psychological drama that asks its audience to sit with discomfort rather than search for answers. Another is a warm, distinctly French romantic comedy built around mature conversations and the quiet intersections of ordinary lives. The third transforms a familiar Christmas story into an intimate meditation on forgiveness, parenthood, and second chances.

What unites them is not genre, tone, or even narrative structure.

It is Hollander's instinct for choosing stories centered on deeply human relationships. Whether she is portraying loneliness, love, reconciliation, or hope, her performances consistently reject melodrama in favor of emotional honesty. Rather than searching for characters who are larger than life, she seems drawn to people whose inner worlds feel recognizable, allowing audiences to project pieces of themselves into each role.

That willingness to disappear into radically different characters has already made her one of the most versatile young performers working in Canadian cinema. Within only three feature films, she has avoided the trap of becoming "the dramatic actress" or "the romantic lead." Instead, she has quietly built a reputation for versatility, moving comfortably between prestige drama, romantic comedy, and holiday cinema without ever feeling out of place.

Perhaps that is why her next career move feels less like a departure than a natural progression.

Rather than remaining exclusively in film, Hollander now makes her television debut with Amazon Prime's upcoming culinary drama set in Boston. Centered on the relentless pursuit of perfection inside the world of fine dining, the series explores ambition, identity, obsession, and the psychological cost of excellence—territory that promises yet another challenge unlike anything she has tackled before.

If there is a defining characteristic of Jane Hollander's career, it is not a particular genre, character archetype, or performance style. It is curiosity. She has shown remarkably little interest in repeating past successes, choosing instead to treat each new project as an opportunity to begin again.

For an actress still at the beginning of her career, that may prove to be her greatest strength.

Comments:

@LetterboxdLover

I originally knew Jane because of Cartier. Then the Dior campaign happened, and I remember thinking, "She's gorgeous, but I wonder if she's another model trying to become an actress."

Then I watched Sans titre.

I've never been happier to be completely wrong.

She isn't a model who acts.

She's an actress who happens to model.

 

@filmcriticweekly

The remarkable thing about Jane Hollander isn't that she disappears into her characters—that phrase gets thrown around far too easily.

It's that she understands that every character thinks differently.

La Fille doesn't process the world the way Élise does. Lily doesn't react to disappointment the way either of them would.

You can almost see different minds working behind the same face.

That's incredibly rare.

 

@cinemagirl22

I still remember leaving Sans titre in complete silence.

Nobody in the theater moved when the credits started.

Nobody reached for their phone.

Nobody even spoke.

It wasn't because the ending was shocking.

It was because the film had quietly exhausted everyone emotionally.

I don't think I've experienced that before.

 

@FrenchCinemaDaily

The decision not to give either the film or Jane's character a name is one of the boldest artistic choices I've seen in years.

The audience spends the entire film waiting to learn why she wants to die.

That explanation never comes and eventually you realize the point is that she could be anyone.

The girl sitting next to you in class.

Your coworker.

Your daughter.

Your friend.

The absence of a name becomes the entire message.

 

@actingcoach_ca

People often mistake subtle acting for "doing nothing."

Jane is doing an extraordinary amount.

Watch her eyes when another character is speaking and how often she starts to say something before deciding against it.

Watch how she hesitates before opening doors, answering questions, or picking up the phone.

Every moment is filled with thought.

 

@MovieNerd98

One thing that really struck me was how ordinary La Fille feels.

Hollywood often portrays depression as dramatic breakdowns, but this movie doesn't.

She studies, goes grocery shopping, waits for the bus, and even laughs occasionally.

That's exactly why it scared me.

 

@CinemaProfessor

One of my students asked why the film never explains her depression.

I asked them a different question: "If the film had given you a reason, would you have felt more comfortable?"

They said yes.

That's precisely what Luc Beaulieu refused to do.

The audience doesn't get the comfort of explanation because neither does life.

 

@CanadianArts

Winning the award for that performance was absolutely deserved.

The role demands an actor capable of communicating an internal battle without ever explaining it aloud.

That confidence is extraordinary in a debut performance.

 

@romcomlover

Then she turns around and makes Les Cœurs Croisés.

How.

How is this the same woman?

Élise feels like sunlight.

She's funny without trying to be funny.

She's awkward in that very specific way intelligent people sometimes are, where they accidentally talk too much because they're excited.

You fall in love with her almost immediately because she feels like someone you'd actually know.

 

@FrenchFilmSociety

My favorite thing about Les Cœurs Croisés is that nobody behaves like an idiot.

There isn't some ridiculous misunderstanding that could have been solved with a five-minute conversation. They're honest with each other from beginning to end.

Life is simply asking them to choose between two dreams that can't exist in the same place.

That's heartbreaking because it's believable.

 

@julienroyfan

The chemistry between Jane Hollander and Julien Roy never feels manufactured.

There was no PR relationship, they just flirt like two people who've spent enough time together that they've developed their own rhythm.

They interrupt each other, finish each other's thoughts, and laugh at jokes that aren't particularly funny.

That's what made the romance work.

 

@MontrealCoffeeClub

I have never seen Montréal photographed with so much affection.

Watching Élise and Thomas wander through bookstores, cafés, and snow-covered streets made the city feel like another character.

Jane fit that atmosphere perfectly.

 

@holidaymovieaddict

I avoided A Christmas Carol for months because I assumed it was another generic Christmas movie.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

It's one of the most emotionally honest films about parenthood I've seen in years.

 

@DadMovies

The ornament scene absolutely destroyed me.

Because both of them realize, at the same moment, that there are seventeen years they'll never get back.

You can almost see Lily deciding whether she's brave enough to say the words. Splendid acting from Jane.

 

@ScreenActing101

One thing I've noticed across all three films is that Jane focuses on making the character believable.

 

@CinemaArchive

Every young actor should study these performances.

Not because they're flashy, but because of Jane’s discipline.

There's an enormous amount of restraint behind every emotional scene.

 

@fashioneditor

I followed Jane because of Cartier.

Then Dior.

Now I somehow own Blu-rays of French Canadian films.

I did not expect luxury fashion marketing to turn me into someone who watches independent cinema, but here we are.

 

@DiorObsessed

The Miss Dior commercial actually convinced me to watch Les Cœurs Croisés.

After seeing her dance ballet so beautifully, I assumed she had a dance background.

Then I found out she'd also won an award for her acting, and now I'm counting down the days until her TV series.

 

@ModelWatch

Jane has done something very few people manage.

Normally a celebrity is either known as a model who occasionally acts or an actor who occasionally models.

Somehow, she's respected equally in both industries.

 

@filmstudentmcgill

Can we appreciate how carefully she's chosen her projects?

She could have spent the last five years making interchangeable romantic comedies after Les Cœurs Croisés became a hit.

Instead, she keeps picking stories that ask something different of her.

As a film student, that's the kind of career I admire most.

 

@PrimeStreamingNews

I'm fascinated to see what she does with television.

Film acting and television acting ask for very different rhythms, especially in a long-form character arc.

If her movies are anything to go by, she's going to build that character with an incredible amount of detail over an entire season.

 

@BostonFoodie

As someone who lives in Boston and has been following the production of the Amazon series, it's funny watching Canadians talk about "our Jane."

We're borrowing her for a while, but do not worry, we promise to take good care of her.

 

@actingcoach_ca

Something I appreciate more every time I revisit her work is that she never repeats herself.

Some actors discover one emotional register that audiences respond to and spend years refining it.

Jane seems determined to start from zero every time she accepts a new role.

That's much riskier.

It's also how great careers are built.

 

@cinephilemontreal

I honestly think people will look back on these first three films years from now and realize they were watching the beginning of something special.

Because, even this early, you can already see an actress chasing growth instead of comfort.

That's a much stronger foundation than chasing box office success.

 

@CanadianScreenAwards

Canada has produced wonderful actresses for generations.

Watching Jane's first few years on screen feels less like witnessing someone's arrival and more like watching the next chapter begin.

I can't wait to see where her career goes next.

---

@Dior

Some stories begin with movement.

Others begin with a single look.

Introducing the new Miss Dior campaign starring Canadian actress Jane Hollander.

Bloom into Love.

#MissDior #DiorBeauty #JaneHollander #BloomIntoLove

[Commercial]

The commercial opens to the quiet sound of a piano being played somewhere beyond the frame.

Morning sunlight pours through the towering windows of an empty ballet studio in Paris, washing the polished wooden floor in warm gold. Jane Hollander stands alone at the barre, dressed in a pale blush Dior cashmere wrap cardigan layered over a simple white leotard, and her dark hair is swept into a pristine ballet bun.

She closes her eyes.

Then she begins to dance.

The camera follows her as she glides away from the barre, rising effortlessly onto pointe. Each movement flows seamlessly into the next, pirouettes melting into arabesques, delicate extensions unfolding with the precision that only comes from years of discipline. Nothing feels choreographed for the camera; instead, it feels like the audience has quietly wandered into a private rehearsal, witnessing an artist completely absorbed in her craft.

As the final note of the piano fades, Jane lowers herself from pointe and comes to a perfect stillness in the center of the studio.

The camera slowly circles around her without ever cutting away.

Almost imperceptibly, the empty room begins to change.

A makeup artist steps gently into frame, carefully loosening the severe ballet bun and allowing a few soft strands of dark hair to fall around Jane's face. Another pair of hands smooths the lapel of a tailored cream coat over her shoulders while a stylist adjusts the cuff of one sleeve.

Behind them, lighting rigs rise into view, cameras slide silently into position, and crew members cross the floor with efficiency. What only moments before had been an empty ballet studio slowly reveals itself to be an active film set, transformed so naturally that the transition feels almost magical.

A clapboard snaps shut.

"Scene Twelve. Take One."

Jane shares a warm smile with the actor standing opposite her, laughing quietly as he murmurs something only she can hear. Around them, the crew settles into an expectant silence.

"Action."

The transformation is instantaneous.

The smile disappears, not dramatically, but gently, as though another soul has quietly stepped into her place. Her posture softens almost imperceptibly, her breathing slows, and emotion settles into her eyes with astonishing honesty. Within seconds, Jane Hollander is no longer visible.

There is only the woman she has become.

The commercial unfolds through fleeting moments from different productions. In one scene she laughs around a family dinner table, warmth radiating from every expression. In another she stands beneath pouring rain, heartbreak written across her face before a single tear finally escapes. A hospital corridor. A crowded city street. A quiet apartment illuminated only by afternoon sunlight. Every frame introduces another life, another story, another woman whose joys and sorrows feel entirely real.

Jane tells each story with nothing more than a glance.

Eventually, the director's voice cuts gently through the silence.

"Perfect."

The tension leaves her shoulders as the character melts away. Crew members begin applauding softly while someone hands her a robe between takes. Jane thanks the cinematographer with an easy smile, exchanges a grateful hug with the actress who had shared the scene, and quietly slips away before the controlled bustle of the production can catch up with her.

The sound of the film set fades behind her.

A door opens and she steps into golden afternoon sunlight.

Without interruption, the camera follows her through the elegant streets of Paris until she enters a Haussmann apartment overlooking the Seine. The city noise disappears the moment the door closes behind her, replaced by the peaceful hush of a home filled with fresh flowers, linen curtains dancing in the breeze, and warm light spilling across antique hardwood floors.

She walks slowly through the apartment, no longer an actress or a ballerina—simply herself. On an antique vanity sits the unmistakable bottle of Miss Dior, nestled beside a bouquet of freshly cut roses.

Jane pauses.

She gently sprays the fragrance onto her wrist before bringing it to her face, closing her eyes as she inhales. A small smile appears, before she continues into the adjoining salon.

An ivory velvet chaise lounge rests beneath floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Paris. Wearing an embroidered Dior couture gown blooming with thousands of delicate floral appliqués, she lowers herself gracefully onto the sofa, her skirt cascading around her like flower petals. Her ballet training reveals itself even in rest; every line of her body possesses an effortless elegance that cannot be manufactured.

The camera slowly moves closer.

She lifts her gaze, her lips curve into the faintest smile. Almost as though she is sharing a secret, she whispers, "Love begins quietly."

The screen slowly fades to white.

A single bottle of Miss Dior appears surrounded by blooming flowers.

MISS DIOR

Bloom into Love.

Comments:

@Dior

Welcome to the Miss Dior family, Jane. 🌹

 

@Cartier

An icon, as always. ❤️

 

@PrimeVideo

We suddenly feel very underdressed.

 

@TheAcademyCA

Canadian cinema is having a moment.

 

@balletdaily

Excuse me.

SHE CAN ACTUALLY DANCE.

 

@pointemag

Those are not "movie ballet" movements.

Those are years of classical training.

 

@dancearchive

Every transition was clean and every line was finished.

Her épaulement is beautiful.

 

@balletteacher

You can always tell when someone actually trained.

 

@oldmontrealarts

Her mother would be incredibly proud.

 

@dancehistory

For anyone wondering—

Jane Hollander is the daughter of former Montreal Ballet principal Yuna Sato.

 

@filmjournal

That explains so much.

 

@cinemalover

Wait.

THE YUNA SATO??

 

@oldmontrealarts

Yes.

The Yuna Sato.

 

@filmjournal

Oh.

OH.

 

@parisfashion

No wonder she carries herself like that.

 

@harpersbazaar

That final shot on the chaise lounge belongs in a museum.

 

@fashioncritic

The commercial understood something a lot of perfume campaigns forget.

Luxury isn't excess.

It's restraint.

 

@cinematographydaily

The transition from the ballet studio into the film set...

Absolutely seamless.

 

@editingroom

That hidden transition was gorgeous.

 

@filmdirector

I rewound it three times trying to find the cut.

 

@cameraassistant

Same.

 

@beautyeditor

I love that Dior didn't sell the perfume.

They sold her.

 

@filmcritic

That's exactly why it works.

 

@letterboxd

This woman communicates more with one look than some actors manage in an entire movie.

 

@canadianfilmfan

Her win was so deserved.

 

@indiefilmlover

That unnamed film still haunts me.

 

@moviebuff

The scene where she realizes...

I have genuinely never recovered.

 

@frenchcinema

And then she turns around and makes the sweetest French rom-coms imaginable.

The range.

 

@romcomfan

Justice for Le Temps des Cœurs.

That movie deserved a wider release.

 

@holidaywatch

A Christmas Carol has become part of my family's Christmas tradition.

 

@parisienne

I love that Dior acknowledged her ballet background without making it the entire commercial.

It felt elegant.

 

@beautylovers

She somehow looks timeless.

Like she belongs in every decade.

 

@luxuryliving

There's something incredibly old Hollywood about her.

 

@cinemaweekly

She reminds me of Audrey Hepburn in the way she moves.

 

@fashiontok

I cannot explain it.

She's unbelievably beautiful, but she never feels intimidating.

 

@softaesthetic

She always looks kind.

 

@makeupartistlife

That close-up with almost no makeup??

Insane confidence from Dior.

 

@perfumecollector

Miss Dior has had some incredible ambassadors.

Jane fits the brand perfectly.

 

@editorialfashion

Grace.

Elegance.

Warmth.

Three words that describe both Jane and Miss Dior.

 

@theplaylist

Between this campaign and her films...

She's quietly becoming one of the most interesting actresses of her generation.

 

@fashiontok

I'm buying the perfume because of this commercial.

I don't even know what it smells like.

 

@beautyweekly

Dior really said,

"What if we made everyone fall in love for two minutes?"

 

@Dior

Mission accomplished. 🌸

---

TMZ Sports

Boston's New Power Couple? Jane Hollander Wears Rozanov Jersey at Bears Game Before Leaving With NHL Star

Boston may have found its newest celebrity couple, and if Thursday night's game was any indication, the fans are already completely on board.

Canadian actress Jane Hollander attended the Boston Bears' home game against the Florida Panthers from one of the arena's VIP boxes, initially drawing only the kind of attention expected for one of Canada's fastest-rising actresses. During the first period she largely kept to herself, chatting with guests and quietly following the action while wearing a long camel coat that concealed whatever she had underneath.

[Photos]

— Jane arriving at the rink through the VIP entrance wearing a floor-length camel coat, oversized sunglasses, and knee-high brown leather boots. Her dark hair falls in loose waves over one shoulder as arena staff escort her toward the private elevators.

— Jane seated inside the glass-front VIP box, leaning forward with her elbows resting on the railing while watching warmups. A drink sits untouched beside her as she smiles at something happening on the ice, her coat still buttoned closed.

Everything changed during a television timeout in the second period when the arena's Fan Cam landed on her box. Hollander looked momentarily surprised before smiling and offering the crowd a shy wave, prompting a warm round of applause. Then, seemingly encouraged by the audience's reaction, she stood, turned around, and revealed the back of the jersey she had been wearing beneath her coat.

The name stitched across the shoulders read ROZANOV, accompanied by the unmistakable number 81.

According to multiple fans who were in attendance, the reaction inside the arena was immediate. The applause quickly grew into a deafening roar that lasted close to twenty seconds, with many spectators standing as Hollander laughed, covered her face in embarrassment, and responded with a playful bow toward the crowd before sitting back down. Videos shared online show her blushing throughout the entire interaction, clearly overwhelmed by the reception.

[Photos]

— The exact moment the Fan Cam appears on the jumbotron. Jane is caught mid-laugh, one hand raised in an awkward wave as thousands of fans begin recognizing her.

— Jane standing with her back to the crowd after opening her coat, revealing a black Boston Bears jersey with ROZANOV 81 stitched across the shoulders.

— A wide shot of rink as thousands of fans stand applauding while the giant scoreboard displays Jane smiling shyly from the VIP box.

Had the story ended there, it could easily have been dismissed as an actress publicly supporting a player, she had become friends with. However, our photographers remained outside the rink after the final horn, where events only fueled the speculation surrounding the pair.

Roughly thirty minutes after the game concluded, Hollander exited through the players' parking area rather than the public entrance. Witnesses tell TMZ that Ilya Rozanov emerged shortly afterward, still wearing portions of his team-issued postgame attire beneath a Bears jacket. The two spent several minutes talking beside his black Porsche, laughing throughout the conversation. Rozanov then walked around the vehicle, opened the passenger-side door for Hollander, waited for her to get in, and drove the two away together.

Neither appeared concerned about avoiding photographers, nor did they make any visible effort to separate before leaving the arena, something that has only intensified speculation that the relationship between them extends well beyond friendship.

[Photos]

— Jane waiting beside a sleek black Porsche in the players' parking area, now wearing the Rozanov jersey without her coat. She is smiling while looking toward the arena exit.

— Ilya Rozanov walking toward her moments later in tailored charcoal trousers, white sneakers, and a black Boston Bears team jacket partially zipped over his postgame shirt. His hockey bag hangs over one shoulder as he grins the instant he spots Jane.

— The pair laughing together beside the driver's side door during an animated conversation, Jane looking up at him while Ilya gestures with his hands, both appearing completely at ease despite photographers nearby.

— Ilya opening the passenger-side door of the Porsche for Jane before she climbs inside, still smiling back at him.

— The black Porsche pulling away from the parking lot with Jane visible through the passenger-side window, the ROZANOV 81 jersey still clearly visible beneath her open coat.

Comments:

@bostonsports

I was at the game last night, and this article understates the crowd’s reaction.

The entire arena LOST IT.

 

@gardensection312

She looked so confused at first 😭

Then she realized they were cheering for her.

 

@bearfaithful

The way she covered her face when everyone kept screaming was adorable.

 

@rinksidecam

She did the tiniest little bow afterward.

Boston collectively decided to adopt her.

 

@sportscenter

The Rozanov jersey reveal was absolutely legendary.

 

@queenwag

Respectfully...

That's a girlfriend reveal if I've ever seen one.

 

@nhlgossip

Girl literally stood up and showed his name to 18,000 people.

 

@filmfanatic

I know she's media trained because I would've passed out.

 

@cinemawatcher

The blush was REAL.

You can't fake that.

 

@bostonbearfan

Then TMZ catches them leaving together??

They're not even trying to hide it.

 

@goalhorn81

Honestly...

Good for them.

 

@montrealhabs

Absolutely not.

Jane studied at McGill.

She should not be cheering for Boston.

 

@ottawapride

She studied at McGill.

She didn't sign a blood oath.

She's literally from Ottawa not Montreal!

 

@canadianhockey

Canadians don't automatically become a Metros fans because they crossed the Quebec border for university.

 

@habsfan95

Exactly.

People move.

It happens.

 

@montrealhabs

Still feels wrong.

 

@sensforever

Brother.

Ottawa exists.

 

@leafslurker

This is the funniest argument.

Imagine telling someone they're not allowed to support their boyfriend because of where they got their linguistics degree.

 

@bruinshistory

Also...

Has anybody considered that maybe she's cheering for Ilya?

Not the jersey?

 

@hockeymom

Some people have apparently never been in a relationship.

 

@canadianfilmfan

Jane has literally spent her entire career avoiding drama.

If she's publicly wearing someone's jersey...

I'd say she's serious.

 

@boston617

And honestly?

I've never seen Rozanov look happier.

 

@rinkreport

That's the biggest thing for me.

Forget the jersey.

Look at HIM.

 

@goalcam

Go watch the warm-up videos.

Every time the camera found her box, he looked up.

 

@nhlclips

There was one point after his goal where he immediately pointed toward the VIP boxes.

I'm just saying.

 

@sportsnerd

He has NEVER smiled that much during warmups.

Ever.

 

@oldbearfan

I've watched this kid since his rookie year.

He's always looked like he wanted to fight somebody.

Last night he looked... happy.

 

@hockeygrandma

That's exactly it.

Happy.

I don't care whether they're dating.

I like seeing him smile.

 

@bearsdaily

Ilya's reputation has always been "bad boy”, but maybe the media got him wrong.

They look so happy in those pictures.

 

@hollywoodobserver

Jane has always struck me as someone with an excellent judge of character.

She doesn't seem like the type to fall for someone just because he's famous.

 

@indiefilmlover

She spent years doing independent Canadian films before Amazon Prime found her.

She's never chased attention.

 

@sportsmedia

And she's certainly not getting good publicity by dating hockey's resident menace.

 

@northend617

Boston doesn't care.

We like her.

 

@gardencrew

Correction.

We LOVE her.

 

@bostonbearsfan

There were people making signs before the third period even ended.

 

@sportspics

My favorite one said:

WELCOME TO BOSTON, JANE ❤️

 

@causewaystreet

The "QUEEN WAG" banner killed me 😂

 

@bearfaithful

There were like four of them.

 

@hockeyfan22

The little girl behind me made one during intermission.

It said: IF ILYA LIKES HER, WE LIKE HER.

 

@gardensection312

Boston sports fans are either the most hostile people on Earth or the most loyal.

There is absolutely no middle ground.

 

@northend617

She wore the jersey and looked genuinely happy while doing so.

That's all we needed.

 

@cinematok

Can we also acknowledge that Jane Hollander somehow managed to make a hockey jersey look like couture?

 

@fashionweekly

She could wear a garbage bag, and Dior would probably ask where they could buy it.

 

@queenwag

Imagine being one of the biggest fashion icons in Canada and choosing to wear your boyfriend's oversized hockey jersey.

That's actually really sweet.

 

@hockeyromantic

The funniest part is that everyone expected Ilya Rozanov to date some underwear model with a bad reputation.

Instead, he somehow fell for the quiet linguistics major who makes French holiday movies.

 

@bookgirlie

Black cat x sunshine.

Every single time.

 

@sportswriter

No...

Russian bear × Canadian sweetheart.

 

@bostonstrong

Whatever they are...

I hope it's real.

He looks at peace and she is radiating happiness.

---

@BostonForever

WE ARE BACK-TO-BACK STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONS.

TWO.

CONSECUTIVE.

CUPS.

I genuinely don't think this city has processed it yet.

 

@SouthieSean

First Cup: Ilya carried us.

Second Cup: Ilya carried us... and somehow found the love of his life.

Man really said "why not have everything?"

 

@NHLHistorian

The funniest part is that everyone is acting like Jane brought him the first Cup.

People...

He won the first one before he even knew she existed.

She just happened to be around for Cup number two.

 

@BearDown81

Exactly.

He's been a hockey God for years.

Now he's a hockey God with a ridiculously pretty girlfriend.

 

@BostonFaithful

Counterargument.

He won ONE Stanley Cup without Jane.

He won ANOTHER with Jane.

Statistically...

Jane has a 100% Stanley Cup success rate.

 

@advancedanalytics

I've run the numbers.

Games before Jane:

✔ Stanley Cup.

Games after Jane:

✔ Stanley Cup.

Conclusion:

Do not let this woman leave Boston.

 

@sportsnerd

Sign Jane Hollander to an eight-year extension.

 

@BearNation

Give her a key to the city.

 

@northendnana

Sweetheart, if she makes him smile like that, she's already earned one.

 

@bruinslegacy

I've watched Ilya Rozanov since he entered the league.

He's always been smiling after goals, fights, and wins.

I've never seen him smile because someone was simply looking at him.

That's the difference.

 

@GardenSeats12

There are literal photographs of this man looking at Jane like she hung the moon.

 

@queenofnewbury

The Porsche candids??

He looked happier helping her into the passenger seat than he did lifting the Stanley Cup.

 

@BostonSportsTalk

I'm trying very hard not to become emotionally invested.

It's not working.

 

@FenwayFrank

Too late.

We're all invested.

 

@BackToBackBears

Listen...

We prayed for consecutive Cups.

The hockey Gods delivered.

If Jane Hollander is part of whatever cosmic bargain happened...

I'm not asking questions.

 

@CausewayKing

Ilya Rozanov.

Back-to-back Stanley Cup Champion.

Conn Smythe winer.

Boston legend.

Apparently, boyfriend material now.

What a timeline.

 

@NorthStation

Someone on Twitter called Jane "Lady Luck."

Honestly?

I'm buying in.

 

@analytics_guy

Correlation ≠ causation.

...

Unless?

 

@hockeymemes

Ilya won one Cup alone.

Then met Jane.

Then won another.

I'm just saying...

The sample size is growing.

 

@ThePuckProfessor

People are joking, but it's genuinely refreshing seeing a superstar athlete who looks completely comfortable in a healthy relationship.

The chemistry between them is incredible.

 

@northendnana

She doesn't look intimidated by his fame and he doesn't look like he's performing his bad-boy image anymore.

They just look... happy.

 

@SouthBostonGirl

The smile he gave her after the game??

I've watched every interview this man has given.

That smile wasn't for cameras.

 

@hockeywifewannabe

I'm already planning the wedding.

 

@BearDown81

The engagement better happen before training camp.

 

@StanleyCupCollector

No pressure or anything, Ilya...

But if she's your lucky charm...

Maybe don't let her go.

 

@ParadeVeteran

Boston has officially entered delusion season.

 

@FenwayFrank

Correction.

We've entered protect Jane Hollander at all costs season.

 

@NorthEndJoe

Forget Queen WAG.

She's Queen of Boston now.

 

@CausewayKing

Back-to-back Cups.

League's best center.

World's prettiest actress.

Life is absolutely unfair to the rest of us.

 

@BostonForever

Ilya Rozanov better marry that woman.

I'm only half joking.

 

@NHLDaily

Imagine explaining this headline ten years ago.

"Russian hockey center falls for multilingual Dior ambassador and Canadian film award winner."

Life writes better stories than Hollywood.

 

@sportsradio98

Can we also acknowledge that Jane hasn't changed him?

She's just brought out a side nobody outside the locker room ever got to see.

That's probably the healthiest part of this entire thing.

 

@BearsNationOfficial

Whether they're officially together or not...

Boston is having a pretty great week. 🐻🏆🏆

---

Posted by @LuluLives ⭐️👑🥖🏒 • 8 hours ago

I owe everyone an apology. I have abandoned the Church of Clilya and converted to Hollanov.

I know.

I KNOW.

You are all free to laugh.

For YEARS I was convinced Cliff and Ilya had elite bromance chemistry. I wrote essays, made edits, and analyzed interviews frame by frame. I genuinely believed there was something special there.

Turns out...

There was.

Friendship.

That's it.

I have finally accepted that these are just two idiots who happen to love each other like brothers.

Then Amazon Prime released The Lion's Den and I watched it because everyone kept talking about this "Jane Hollander girl."

I knew who she was, obviously. I'd seen the Cartier campaigns, the Dior commercial, all the movie reviews. I even watched Les Cœurs Croisés a couple of years ago because my roommate forced me to.

But television?

I wasn't expecting much.

Instead, she walked onto my screen as Claire Beauchamp, and somewhere around episode three I fell in love.

Every little habit felt real. The way she absentmindedly tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear while reading tickets. The exhausted smile she'd give customers even when she was clearly running on two hours of sleep. The tiny pauses before answering difficult questions, as though Claire was carefully choosing every word because she couldn't afford to say the wrong thing.

Nothing about the performance screamed, "Look at me! I'm acting!"

She simply became another person.

By episode seven, I understood why every critic had been saying that Jane builds characters from the inside out.

By the finale...

Yeah.

I was done for.

Then I started seeing clips of her and Ilya together.

The way he looks at her like she's the only person in the room.

The stupid little smiles.

The fact that the man who spent years looking allergic to happiness now smiles so much that Boston fans literally make compilations of it.

I'm sorry.

I get it now.

I understand and I'm officially retiring from the Clilya fandom.

Long live Hollanov!

Also—and this is the hill I am willing to die on—

Jane Hollander was absolutely ROBBED during awards season.

A nomination for the Emmys and the Golden Globes.

And then...

Nothing.

Excuse me???

Did we all watch the same show??

Claire Beauchamp was one of the most layered television performances I've seen in years. There are scenes where she conveys an entire emotional breakdown without changing the volume of her voice.

There are scenes where she's smiling while her eyes are practically begging someone to notice she's drowning. And don't even get me started on episode nine.

If you've seen it...

You know.

So yes.

I've changed and grown.

Cliff and Ilya are soulmates.

Platonic soulmates.

Jane stole Ilya's heart.

Jane should've stolen the awards season.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

Comments:

@BostonBruin81

Ladies and gentlemen...

She has seen the light.

 

@HollanovFanclub 👑

The Fanclub welcomes our newest convert.

Your ceremonial Rozanov jersey is in the mail.

 

@CliffFan1997

As someone who never left the Clilya camp...

Yeah.

They're brothers.

I don't know why we were all pretending otherwise.

 

@StickTape

Character development.

We love to see it.

 

@FaceoffForever

Lulu abandoning Clilya before GTA VI.

I never thought I'd witness this day.

 

@LuluLives

Listen.

Don't make this harder than it already is.

😭

 

@IlyaSmileTracker

The evidence was right there.

The man smiled maybe twice a season before Jane.

Now he's grinning at random during warmups.

 

@BearsNation

The funniest part is that Boston fans collectively skipped the "Are they dating?" phase.

We went straight to:

"So, when's the wedding?"

 

@HabsForever

As a Montréal fan...

I still wish she'd become a Metros supporter.

As a human being...

I've never seen Ilya Rozanov look happier.

I can't even be mad anymore.

 

@TheLionsDenFan

THANK YOU.

Finally, someone is talking about the awards.

Jane carried that season.

 

@PrestigeTV

I watched every actress nominated for the Emmy that year.

Jane gave my favorite performance.

I'm still annoyed.

 

@GoldenGlobeWatcher

The nomination was nice.

The award would've been nicer.

 

@ClaireBeauchampDefenseLeague

Episode nine alone should've won her every award available.

I'm completely serious.

 

@CinemaNerd

What impressed me wasn't one big emotional scene.

It was that Claire felt like the same person whether she was cooking, arguing with the chef, sitting alone in her apartment, or quietly breaking down in the walk-in refrigerator.

Most actors peak during the dramatic moments.

Jane made the ordinary moments just as compelling.

 

@EmmyVoterPleaseExplain

I've rewatched that season three times.

I still cannot understand how she lost.

 

@BostonFoodie

Claire feels like someone I've actually met working in restaurants.

Nothing about her felt fictional, that's why the performance hit so hard.

 

@PrimeSubscriber

She somehow made perfectionism look exhausting instead of glamorous.

Every tiny mistake Claire made felt catastrophic because she believed it was.

That's incredibly difficult to communicate without overacting.

 

@FilmCritic88

What amazes me is how consistent her career has been.

Sans titre.

Les Cœurs Croisés.

A Christmas Carol.

Then The Lion's Den.

She keeps finding characters that require completely different emotional toolkits.

 

@LetterboxdGuy

I started following her because of her movies.

My girlfriend started following her because of Dior.

Now we both watch The Lion's Den.

Marketing works, apparently.

 

@FashionToFilm

Cartier got me.

Miss Dior kept me.

Sans titre made me a fan for life.

 

@BearsFaithful

Can we also acknowledge that Ilya Rozanov somehow landed Canada's biggest acting talent?

Man wins Stanley Cups on and off the ice.

 

@HollanovFanclub 👑

Correction.

Jane also landed him.

We support equality in this household.

 

@BearsFaithful

Fair.

Power couple.

 

@LuluLives

Exactly.

They're both outkicking their coverage.

 

@StanleyCup81

The greatest victory of Ilya Rozanov's career wasn't his second Stanley Cup.

It was convincing Jane Hollander to date him.

 

@BostonBruin81

And somehow, he still looks like he can't believe she likes him.

Which is honestly adorable.

 

@HollanovFanclub 👑

Another successful conversion.

The propaganda continues. 👑🏒❤️

Chapter 7: From the Backseat

The following weeks became a blur of schedules, flights, practices, and games.

With the Boston Bears advancing to the Eastern Conference Final, Ilya’s life became almost entirely consumed by hockey. Training sessions stretched longer, travel became constant, and every day seemed to revolve around preparing to face the Admirals.

And despite all of that, somehow, Ilya still found time to worry about Jane.

Which was why Svetlana was almost amused when he called her one night.

"Sveta."

She already knew he was about to ask something ridiculous.

"What?"

"Can you spend some time with Jane?"

Svetlana stared at her phone. "Excuse me?"

"She’s still new here."

"Ilya, she has been in Boston for months."

"I know, but—" She could practically hear the stubborn concern in his voice. "She’s alone when I’m traveling. I just don’t want her to feel lonely."

Svetlana closed her eyes. Of course. Of course, Ilya Rozanov, the same man who used to pretend he did not care about anything, was now worrying about whether his girlfriend had someone to show her around the city.

A few months ago, that would have made her laugh. Now, it only made her smile. Because this was exactly who he was when he allowed himself to be happy.

"Fine," she told him.

And perhaps she owed him that much. After all, she had spent years treating Ilya as her safety net. Her escape plan. The person she knew would always be there whenever she needed him. The least she could do was be there for the person who had become important to him.

So, Svetlana started spending time with Jane. And surprisingly enough... she enjoyed it.

At first, she had expected it to be strange. Jane was everything Svetlana was not. She was polished where Svetlana was chaotic. She was careful where Svetlana was impulsive. She looked like she belonged on magazine covers and elegant premieres, while Svetlana looked like she could walk into a nightclub at midnight and convince everyone she owned the place.

But Jane was not what Svetlana expected.

Yes, she was polite. Almost painfully polite sometimes. She did not go clubbing or spend her nights drinking until sunrise. But underneath all that elegance was someone funny, with a surprisingly dry sense of humor. Someone who could make the most ridiculous comments with a completely straight face and then look confused when people started laughing.

Svetlana liked that. She liked that Jane was not fragile.

People saw the perfect Canadian actress, the Dior dresses, the careful interviews, and the graceful smile. But Svetlana saw someone who could sit in a coffee shop for two hours discussing the strangest things, someone who could laugh at herself, and who was far more stubborn than she appeared.

Jane even invited her to some of her filming days and photoshoots. And Svetlana had to admit, it was fascinating. She had spent her life around hockey arenas, training facilities, and parties. She had never really seen the other side of entertainment. Watching Jane transform between takes, watching the crew move around her, and how seriously she took every small detail, gave Svetlana a new appreciation for her.

Jane worked hard. Very hard. The perfection was not effortless. It was earned.

Then, one afternoon, after they had spent the day together, Jane hesitated. It was such a small thing that Svetlana almost missed it.

"Can I ask you something?"

Svetlana looked at her. "Of course."

Jane tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Ilya told me you grew up here. At least when you were little."

Svetlana nodded. "Yes."

"Would you maybe show me around?"

The request surprised her. "You want a tour?"

Jane smiled sheepishly. "I know it sounds foolish, but I've been here for months, and I still haven't really seen Boston."

Svetlana raised an eyebrow. "You still haven't explored the city?"

"I've been busy," Jane shrugged.

That was such a Jane answer, that it had Svetlana shaking her head. "Fine."

And so, she showed her Boston. Not the glamorous version, nor the places tourists photographed. She showed her the side streets and old brick buildings. The little corners of the city that people ignored because they saw them every day.

And strangely enough... Svetlana found herself enjoying it.

She had expected to be bored. Instead, she found herself falling in love with Boston again. Not because of the city itself, but because of the memories. Because it reminded her of when she had first moved to Moscow as a child.

Back then, everything had been unfamiliar. The streets. The language. The culture. And Ilya had been the one who showed her everything. He had dragged her through the local markets, pointed out his favorite places, explained the history behind buildings, and made a foreign city feel like home.

She had fallen in love with Moscow because of him. And now, years later, she was doing something similar for Jane. The parallel was almost too poetic.

Bittersweet too.

Svetlana smiled at the thought. Jane was different from her, wearing her heart openly. Too openly, sometimes. She cared without hesitation and loved without protecting herself first. It was something Svetlana had never allowed herself to do.

Maybe that was why Ilya loved her.

But somewhere along the way, something unexpected happened. Jane stopped being just Ilya’s girlfriend. She became Svetlana’s friend. A real one.

And Svetlana realized that maybe losing her old plan was not the same thing as losing something important. Maybe some things were not meant to be held onto forever. Maybe some people were meant to enter your life and change it in ways you never expected.

And Jane Hollander had done exactly that.

Which is why Svetlana was scared shitless when one day she woke up with the worst headache of her life.

For a few seconds, she did not know where she was. Then she realized she was warm. Comfortably warm. Too comfortably warm. And then she realized why.

She was in a bed. With Ilya. And Jane.

Svetlana froze and her eyes widened as cold panic washed over her.

Oh no. No. No, no, no.

She tried to remember the night before. There was a parade and she had drunk too much vodka. After all, the Bears had won the Stanley Cup.

She remembered laughing. She remembered Ilya being lifted onto shoulders by his teammates, while Jane cried because she was so happy. She remembered joining some ridiculous drinking game where they took a shot every time the crowd cheered. Which, in hindsight, had been an absolutely terrible idea.

But she did not remember... She looked down at herself. No. She was not naked and she did not feel sore at all. So, she had not— Okay. Good. But still.

She turned her head slightly. Ilya was lying in the middle, exactly as he always seemed to end up whenever he slept. Completely relaxed, one arm thrown above his head, the other loosely around Jane. And Jane was curled against him, with her head resting on his chest, right above the bear tattoo over his heart.

With Svetlana's head resting on his other side.

The three of them looked ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. From an outside perspective, this should have been bizarre. But somehow... it felt normal. That was the terrifying part. It felt so natural to be sharing a bed with not only Ilya, but Jane as well.

Before Svetlana could spiral any further, Jane opened her eyes. And smiled.

"Sveta? How are you feeling?"

The concern in Jane's voice made Svetlana feel even worse. "How am I feeling?" she whispered hoarsely. "I'm so sorry, Jane."

Jane frowned. "What are you apologizing for?"

"This…" She gestured vaguely around them. "…situation."

For a moment, Jane looked confused. Then realization dawned on her. "Oh." She waved her hand. "No, no, no. Don't worry about it. I was the one who put you here."

"What?" Svetlana stared in confusion.

Jane laughed softly. "Both of you were completely gone." She pointed toward Ilya. "Especially him."

Svetlana snorted. "That sounds accurate."

"Cliff had to help me get him into bed because he was barely walking." That sounded even more accurate. "And there was no way I was leaving you alone in the living room in case you got sick."

Svetlana winced. "Did I?"

"No." Jane smiled. "But I wasn't taking chances." She shrugged. "So, I put you here. It’s easier for me to keep an eye on you both, if you’re sharing a bedroom."

Svetlana stared at her. "You just..."

"Yes."

"With your boyfriend."

"Yes."

"And you were okay with that?"

Jane looked genuinely confused. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Svetlana was left speechless by the absolute trust in her tone. And suddenly, she felt ridiculously lucky. Because somehow, somewhere along the way, she had gained something she had never really had before.

A first real female friend.

She had always had Ilya. Always. But this was different. Jane was someone she could talk to and who understood things Ilya never could. A woman who did not see her as competition. And Svetlana liked it.

More than she had ever expected.

Jane stretched and carefully climbed out of bed. "I'll make breakfast."

Svetlana watched her leave. And then, almost without thinking, she curled closer to Ilya. The moment she did, she felt him shift and her eyes narrowed. "I know you're awake, asshole," she said it in Russian.

A quiet chuckle came from him. "I was trying to give you two some privacy."

She rolled her eyes, then she lightly pinched his chest. She wanted to be annoyed. She really did. But she was too tired. Her head was pounding. His was probably pounding too. That drinking game had been stupid. Completely stupid. But they had won. They were allowed one stupid night.

They lay there in silence for a moment. And then Svetlana spoke.

"If you do not marry her, Ilya..."

He opened one eye. "What?"

"I'll marry her."

There was a pause. Then Ilya groaned. "Everyone wants to marry my Jane."

Svetlana smirked. "Can you blame us?"

"Why can't you people leave me alone?"

"No."

"Please."

"Leave us alone."

Svetlana laughed. "You are impossible."

"I am the victim here."

"You have the most wonderful woman in the world, and you are complaining?"

"Because everyone keeps trying to steal her."

"Because she is stealable."

Ilya groaned again. "That is not a word."

"It is now." She turned onto her side to look at him. "I'm serious."

His expression softened. "I know."

"Marry her."

A small smile appeared on his face. "You really like her."

Svetlana looked toward the doorway where Jane had disappeared, then back at him. "Yes." The answer came easily. "I do." She sighed. "And honestly? I might have to settle for having her as my sister. But if you do not marry her..." She pointed at him. "I am warning you."

"I am listening."

"I will marry her."

Ilya covered his face with his hand. "Everyone wants to marry my Jane."

Svetlana smiled. "Because she's marriageable."

He shook his head, but he was smiling.

Svetlana leaned back, watching him soften in a way he almost never did. From the kitchen, she could hear Jane humming to herself over the sound of coffee pouring. It was wild, honestly. Usually, the second the hockey season wrapped up, Ilya was out the door.

She’d fully expected him to spend the summer in Moscow. He always did. Or at least he tried to. No matter how much drama was waiting for him back home, some weird, invisible pull always dragged him back to Russia.

Except this year, Ilya surprised everyone. Instead of flying back to Moscow, he spent the entire summer following Jane across the world.

Svetlana had never seen anything quite like it.

Jane's television series exploded overnight. The pilot became one of Amazon Prime's biggest premieres of the year, critics praising the writing just as much as Jane's performance. Week after week, the audience grew until it was one of the platform's most-watched shows.

Award season followed. Golden Globe and Emmy nominations, but neither ended in a win. An outcome Ilya considered an absolute crime against television, becoming comically offended on her behalf.

Svetlana still remembered seeing one interview where a reporter asked Jane how she felt about the nominations. Jane had smiled graciously, answering that simply being nominated was already an incredible honor. The camera immediately cut to Ilya beside her, looking personally betrayed by the universe.

Social media adored it. The internet grew obsessed with Boston's newest power couple. Every premiere, interview, and red carpet, there was always Ilya. Carrying Jane's purse, holding her coat, opening doors, and waiting with flowers after tapings.

Someone online joked that Ilya Rozanov carried Jane Hollander's bags, her dreams, and probably her entire future. Another person replied that Jane had somehow managed to tame the infamous playboy of Boston. Others argued she had never tamed him at all; she had simply found the version of him nobody else had ever been allowed to see.

Svetlana had to admit... that one hit closest to the truth.

Without Ilya returning to Russia, there was very little reason for her to go back either. So, she spent the summer traveling across Europe with Sasha: Ibiza, Amsterdam, Saint-Tropez—an endless blur of beaches, music, and late nights.

Only this time, a persistent distraction kept interrupting her trip.

Alexei.

At first, she ignored every text. Experience had taught her long ago that nothing good came from speaking to Ilya's older brother. She blocked his number, but he found another. Then another.

Finally, one message caught her attention: Father is sick.

She frowned at her screen. The follow-up came a few hours later: Dementia.

For the first time, she did not delete the thread. A week later, driven by uncertainty, she found herself flying to Ottawa.

The Hollanders had invited Ilya to spend the final week of summer with them before training camp began. Jane would soon return to Boston to film her second season, and Ilya would head back to defend the Cup. For now, they were enjoying the last quiet days before the grind restarted.

Svetlana found him outside, right where Jane said he would be. He was sitting on a park bench, holding two cups of coffee. She sat beside him, watching the breeze rustle the trees. The light mood hung heavy, and she winced, knowing she was about to ruin it.

"Ilya."

He hummed quietly, handing her a cup.

"Alexei has been trying to contact me."

His smile faltered, settling into a guarded stillness. "I know."

"You know?" She turned to him in surprise.

He nodded once. "He reached out to me first."

Svetlana waited, watching his profile, before continuing. "He said your father has dementia."

"He does." No emotion marked his voice. Only flat acceptance.

"I thought..." She paused, re-evaluating. "I thought you didn't know."

"I know." He looked out across the grass, his fingers tracing the edge of the bench. "Alexei wanted me to step up."

"Financially?"

Ilya let out a quick, dry laugh. "Not quite. It was a setup." He leaned back against the wood, staring into the distance. "At first, he called saying we should put Father in a care center. Then, a day later, he completely flipped—said it was cruel, that Father deserved to stay at home with family."

Svetlana frowned, her mind piecing the timeline together. "Wait... Alexei doesn't actually want to take care of him. He hates being responsible."

"Exactly."

Understanding slowly dawned on her. "He wanted you to be the one to say it. He wanted you to insist Father stay with family."

"Bingo," Ilya said, a cynical edge to his tone. "He was playing reverse psychology. He wanted me to make the call so he could position himself as the martyr. The dutiful son sacrificing his life in Moscow to care for our sick father because I demanded it."

Svetlana blinked, processing the calculation behind it. "So, he could invoice you for his 'sacrifice.'"

"Every four weeks, like clockwork," Ilya finished for her, shrugging effortlessly. "He planned to use my guilt as a bank account. Every time he needed cash, he’d call to remind me how hard his life was, taking care of Father all by himself while I lived comfortably in the States. He was setting up a lifetime salary for doing nothing."

"You figured that out right away?" Svetlana asked, impressed despite herself.

"It wasn't subtle," Ilya said softly. "Alexei has been running the same playbook on me since we were kids. He presents a problem, pretends he's taking the high road, and waits for me to feel guilty enough to write a check."

"So, what did you tell him?"

"I took away his leverage." Ilya turned to her, his expression smooth and unbothered. "I agreed with him. I said, 'You're right, Alexei. Taking care of Father is too much for you. So, I’m placing him in the best high-end medical facility in Moscow, and I’m covering every single bill myself.'"

"...That's it?"

"That's it."

"How did he take that?"

"He blew up," Ilya said with a faint, wry smile. "Screamed, called me heartless, told me I was ruining everything. That’s how I knew I was right—if he actually cared about Father’s health, he would have been relieved. But actual care was never the goal. He just wanted my money in his personal account."

A faint, satisfied smile touched Svetlana's lips. For years, Alexei had manipulated everyone in his orbit, and Ilya had always been his favorite target. Not anymore. The trap had been set, and Ilya had simply stepped over it.

"I blocked his number right after," Ilya added, his tone entirely conversational. "My only link to Moscow now is the accounting department at the facility. I pay the invoices directly to the hospital. Nothing goes through Alexei."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

A soft gust of wind rustled through the canopy above them, carrying the crisp turn of the season.

"My life isn't over there anymore," Ilya said softly, the words settling gently between them. "It's in Boston." A genuine, quiet warmth broke through his expression as he looked down at the paper bag in his hands. "And maybe... one day, Ottawa."

Svetlana felt a surge of warmth. Jane. Her family. His actual future.

She bumped his shoulder with hers. "I'm proud of you."

He glanced at her, genuinely surprised. "For what?"

"For refusing to play his game," she said. "For moving on."

For a long moment, Ilya said nothing. Then a peaceful look settled over his features—the kind of ease she once feared he had lost permanently.

"I think," he admitted quietly, "I finally am."

Sitting beside her oldest friend on a bench in Canada, sharing mediocre coffee while letting go of old ghosts, Svetlana realized she truly believed him. Shortly after her talk with Ilya, she accepted the invitation to the Hollander household for dinner.

The moment the front door opened, Yuna Hollander greeted her in fluent Russian. Svetlana answered automatically, but while exchanging pleasantries, she studied the older woman with growing fascination. It was immediately obvious what had allowed Yuna to thrive inside the brutal world of Russian ballet. She carried an intense, laser-like focus that never quite left her eyes and the confidence of someone who had spent decades demanding absolute perfection from herself.

Yet what struck Svetlana most was what wasn't there.

The Russian ballerinas Svetlana had known were hardened by that world, their ambition gradually sanding away every softer edge. Yuna was different. Beneath all that discipline remained a deep warmth that had somehow survived one of the coldest professions imaginable. Looking at her, Svetlana instantly recognized where Jane had inherited her determination, her work ethic, and her focus.

Jane, however, possessed something gentler: a quiet serenity that wrapped around people rather than pushing them forward.

It took Svetlana less than five minutes to realize where that came from.

David Hollander greeted her in English with a warm smile, welcoming her inside as though she were family rather than the best friend of their daughter's boyfriend. Soon they were all seated at the dining table, where a massive dish of chicken Alfredo pasta waited for them.

Svetlana took a single bite and moaned. It was, without question, the best chicken Alfredo she had ever eaten. Across from her, Ilya clearly agreed. After his second bite, his shoulders gave a tiny, involuntary shimmy—a little dance of pure happiness.

Svetlana froze. She had not seen him do that since they were children—not since Grigory Rozanov had looked at his young son with cold disgust and informed him that men did not dance because food tasted good.

Her heart ached at the memory, but it also warmed up when she noticed that no one scolded Ilya now. No one looked at him strangely. Jane simply smiled, David proudly offered him another helping, and Yuna laughed softly. They loved him not despite those childish moments, but because of them. They accepted every part of him, playful shoulder shimmy included, and the sight brought a sudden burn to Svetlana's eyes.

After dinner, they moved to the living room with tea. Yuna slipped away for a moment and came back holding a thick photo album. She set it gently in Ilya's hands, leaving him staring down at it, totally lost. Svetlana stayed quiet, just watching them.

Yuna’s face softened, a sudden, quiet grief washing over her features. "I know you hate talking about it," she said softly. "And I think... in your own way... you’ve been trying to protect us from how bad it really was."

Ilya dropped his gaze.

"But after a year of getting to know you... after all those weekly dinners over video calls..."

Svetlana froze, staring at them in disbelief. Weekly video calls? She had no idea. The Hollanders really had adopted Ilya as family.

"...we started putting the pieces together," Yuna went on, her voice tender. "And we realized... Irina’s gone, isn't she?"

Ilya’s breath hitched, a choked sob tearing out of his throat before he could stop it.

Instinct took over. Svetlana reached across the couch and took his hand. But as she did, she also panicked. Now that Ilya had a girlfriend—a real, serious future—was this still her place? Was she stepping on Jane’s toes? For a terrifying second, Svetlana wondered if comforting her best friend was a boundary she wasn't allowed to cross anymore.

At almost the exact same moment, Jane wrapped her arm around Ilya’s other side.

Svetlana caught Jane’s eye, bracing herself for a subtle shift, a flash of territorial friction, or a silent hint to back off. Instead, Jane just offered her a soft, grateful smile, Svetlana did not feel weirdness or jealousy coming from the other woman, just pure, unconditional love for Ilya.

Svetlana squeezed his hand tighter, a wave of relief washing over her. Out of everyone in the world, Ilya had found someone who didn't try to shrink Svetlana's role in his life but welcomed her right alongside him.

Yuna waited until Ilya’s breathing calmed down a little before she spoke again. "You don't have to explain anything to us," she promised gently. "We'll never push you. If you ever want to tell us what happened, we’re here. And if you don't, that's okay, too."

She nudged the album a tiny bit closer to him. "I just thought... maybe you’d want a piece of the Irina you never got to see."

Ilya looked up, his eyes swimming with tears.

"I gathered every photo I had from our years together in Saint Petersburg," Yuna explained, pointing to a small flash drive tucked into the inside cover. "There are videos, too. Her recitals, rehearsals, random clips we shot together... even a few from when she showed me around Russia."

Whatever flimsy wall Ilya had been holding up completely crumbled.

He doubled over, pulling the album tight against his chest before it slipped from his trembling hands onto his lap. His shoulders shook violently as a sound escaped him that barely sounded human—raw, broken, the kind of sob that only comes from holding a grief inside for far too long.

Jane wrapped both arms around him, pressing her forehead gently against his shoulder, while Svetlana squeezed his hand tightly on the other side, grounding him.

Sandwiched between them, Ilya wept with years of buried pain. He wasn't crying like the captain of the Boston Bears, or the tough, unbreakable son Grigory had tried to force him to be—he was crying like the scared little boy who had been robbed of the chance to mourn his own mother.

Across the room, David quietly placed a comforting hand on Yuna's shoulder. Yuna herself looked close to tears. "I always wondered what happened," she whispered softly. "Irina simply... disappeared." She swallowed against the lump in her throat. "I looked for her for years, but even after finding you I never got an answer."

Ilya tried to say something, but another sob interrupted him.

Jane gently rubbed circles against his back. "You don't have to explain," she murmured. "Not today."

Yuna nodded right away. "Not ever, if you don't want to."

Silence settled over the living room again, broken only by Ilya's uneven breathing. Eventually, after several minutes, he wiped his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, looking embarrassed by the mess he had become.

"I'm sorry..."

"There is absolutely nothing to apologize for," David assured him firmly.

Yuna offered a gentle smile through watery eyes. "I gave those to you hoping they would make you happy," she said, glancing toward the album resting on his lap. "I didn't realize they would also make you mourn."

"They did both," Ilya admitted hoarsely.

He carefully picked up the album and opened it to the first page.

There was Irina, barely older than Jane was now, hair tied into a bun, laughing so hard her eyes had nearly disappeared. She had one arm thrown around a young Yuna Sato as both women leaned against the barre of a rehearsal studio.

"I..." His voice cracked. "I've never seen her look so carefree."

Yuna smiled sadly. "She laughed all the time back then."

Svetlana watched Ilya freeze. That single sentence was worth more than the entire album.

She remembered Irina too: kind, soft, patient, but tired. Always tired. Svetlana had never imagined a version of Irina who laughed all the time, yet here she was, captured forever in glossy photographs—alive, radiant, and happy.

Almost without thinking, Svetlana reached over and turned another page.

Another photograph showed Irina standing in Palace Square wearing an oversized winter coat while Yuna laughed beside her, both holding paper cups of hot tea. On the next page, the two of them tried to cook together in a tiny apartment kitchen. Then Irina asleep on a train, head resting on Yuna's shoulder. Then Irina dancing barefoot in someone's living room while a cassette player sat on the floor.

Svetlana felt her own eyes sting. For years she believed the exhausted woman she remembered had simply always been that way. Instead, Grigory had stolen this ray of sun not just from Ilya, but from the world.

Jane quietly reached into the sleeve tucked inside the album and pulled out the flash drive. "There are a lot of videos on here."

Yuna nodded. "I digitized everything." She smiled faintly. "I thought that maybe... one day... if I ever found her..."

Her sentence trailed off, unfinished. Instead, she gently placed her hand over Ilya's. "I couldn't give them back to Irina," Yuna said, her thumb squeezing his knuckles. "So, I'd like to give them to her son."

The room fell quiet once more, but the silence no longer felt heavy. It felt reverent, as though, for one evening, Irina Rozanov had finally come home.

Svetlana had never expected to spend an entire evening mourning someone she had never truly known. Yet that was exactly what happened.

The five of them settled in the living room long after dinner, the photo album spread across the coffee table while the television played old recordings Yuna had painstakingly transferred from worn VHS tapes and dusty camcorder cassettes. Every now and then, Yuna paused a video to explain some forgotten anecdote from the academy or point out another dancer in the background, laughing softly as she remembered names and rivalries from decades ago.

And every single time Irina appeared on screen, the room grew quieter. The young woman dancing across the television screen did not just dance. She flew.

She laughed openly during rehearsals whenever someone missed a step. She teased Yuna between stretches, throwing her head back without a care in the world, grinning so brightly that it felt nearly impossible this was the same woman. Irina danced as though the music had been written solely for her.

This was not Irina Rozanova. This was Irina Volkov: The Golden Wolf.

Only then did Svetlana truly understand. She had never known the real Irina; she had only known the version that had survived Grigory Rozanov.

Beside her, Ilya remained silent, one hand gripping Jane's while the other turned each page of the album with heartbreaking care. Sometimes he laughed through fresh tears as Yuna recalled another ridiculous story from their student years. Sometimes David quietly refilled everyone's glass of wine without interrupting the conversation. The Hollanders never pressured him to speak; they simply shared the Irina they had loved.

And somehow, that was enough.

Watching Ilya smile through tears as he discovered pieces of his mother he never imagined existed, Svetlana realized just how this family had given him back his mother. For that alone, Svetlana knew she would remain grateful to the Hollanders for the rest of her life.

The following morning was filled with hugs, promises to visit again, and Yuna insisting they take enough leftovers to feed an army. David packed containers into bags anyway while Jane laughed the entire time. By the time they climbed into her blue Range Rover, everyone was smiling despite the emotional farewell.

Ilya buckled himself into the passenger seat before looking around the spacious interior with exaggerated disappointment. "You know," he sighed dramatically, "for someone so successful, your taste in cars is incredibly boring."

Jane shot him an offended look before starting the engine. "It starts every morning."

"My Porsche starts every morning."

"It also disappears under three feet of snow every Canadian winter."

"My Porsche has dignity."

"It has summer tires."

"It has character."

"It has zero ground clearance."

Svetlana, sprawled comfortably across the back seat, laughed as the two of them bickered all the way out of Ottawa.

"I'd rather drive something practical," Jane declared triumphantly. "I'd like to arrive alive instead of spinning into a snowbank because I wanted to look cool."

Ilya folded his arms. "Sports cars are practical."

"In California, maybe," Jane glanced sideways at him.

He frowned. "...Fair."

Their destination was Montreal. One of Jane's friends from Los Angeles was filming a movie there and had invited them to a wrap party after discovering Jane would be nearby visiting her parents. It was only a short drive away, making it the ideal excuse for one last summer road trip before hockey training camp and filming pulled them back into their respective careers.

Halfway there, they stopped at a Tim Hortons. Naturally.

Jane returned carrying an enormous box of pastries, looking absurdly pleased with herself. Ilya peeked inside before groaning dramatically. "I still don't understand what Canadians see in this place."

"They're donuts."

"They're inferior donuts."

"Dunkin' isn't better."

"It absolutely is."

Svetlana rolled her eyes. "Careful," she teased Ilya. "Your Boston is showing."

Jane burst into laughter. "Which is hilarious," she pointed out, "because the only one actually born in Boston is you."

Svetlana blinked. "...You know, that's actually true."

Meanwhile, Ilya continued examining the assortment inside the box: a Mango Deluxe, a Maple Dip, an Apple Fritter, a Honey Cruller, a Chocolate Honeycomb Deluxe, and a pastry decorated with little icing antlers. He carefully pulled out the antlered one.

Jane pointed proudly. "See? Isn’t Monty the Moose the best? You cannot find this in Dunkin'."

Ilya stared at it. "It has little antlers."

"It does."

"It has a tiny chocolate nose."

"Isn’t it adorable?” Jane shot him a victorious smirk. "You can say whatever you want about Tim Hortons, but Monty the Moose is the undefeated donut."

Even Ilya couldn't argue with that logic. "It's... admittedly very cute."

"I win."

"You win… for now."

The three of them dissolved into laughter before settling back into the drive.

From the back seat, Svetlana watched them fall into their comfortable rhythm. Without thinking, Ilya rested one hand on Jane's knee as she drove. Jane reached over during a red light to smooth back a strand of blond hair that had fallen across his forehead.

Sometimes they smiled without saying a word; sometimes they bumped shoulders over a ridiculous joke. Other times, they simply held each other's gaze a beat too long before breaking into laughter—a dozen quiet moments that proved just how happy they were to be together.

Svetlana leaned her head against the window, watching the Quebec landscape blur past.

For years, she had thought love had to be dramatic, explosive, and consuming—something people chased until it inevitably broke them. Instead, sitting quietly in the back seat of a practical Range Rover with a box of donuts between them, she watched two people choose each other over and over through simple, everyday affection.

Maybe that was what love really looked like. Not fireworks, just someone reaching for your hand without thinking. And somehow, that seemed infinitely more beautiful.

Jane unlocked the door to her Montreal condo with a sheepish smile.

"I kept it," she admitted as they stepped inside. "It didn't make sense to sell it. I still have friends here, work brings me back every now and then, and..." She shrugged softly. "It's nice having somewhere that still feels like home in Montreal."

The apartment was everything Svetlana expected Jane’s home to be: inviting, elegant, and understated. One wall was dedicated entirely to movie DVDs, a painted bouquet brightened the dining room, and the couch was practically buried beneath a mountain of plush, overlapping pillows.

They had barely enough time to change before heading out to the party. The venue was buzzing by the time they arrived, and Jane had barely made it through the entrance before her pace slowed.

"...Oh."

Ilya and Svetlana followed her gaze. Scattered throughout the room were the unmistakable faces of several Montreal Metros players. Which had both Russians turning toward Jane at the exact same moment.

"Do not look at me," she defended herself immediately, raising both hands in surrender. "I didn't know there'd be this many hockey players here. I mean, I know a couple of Metros, but..."

Ilya's expression turned into a possessive glower at her comment. "You know hockey players other than me?"

Jane looked at him with an unblinking, flat expression. "I’m a hockey fan who lived in Montreal for four years. Of course, I know hockey players. Especially once I started acting and ended up in the same circles as every other local celebrity."

Ilya's lower lip pushed out into a pout—the expression of a man personally offended that his girlfriend had discovered the existence of other men. Which had Svetlana biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

"Which ones?" he asked suspiciously.

"JJ and Hayden."

Ilya blinked. "...Pike?"

"Yes."

"Hayden Pike?"

"Yes."

"The Montreal Metros player?"

"Yes."

"The one with, like, a thousand children?"

Jane laughed softly. "I don't think it's quite a thousand."

"Close enough."

Svetlana lost her composure completely. A laugh burst out of her, doubling her over as she clutched her stomach. Ilya looked appalled, which only made Jane's next comment hit harder.

"Careful," Jane teased innocently. "Those kids are my godchildren."

Svetlana laughter cut abruptly, as Ilya froze. Both stared at Jane in disbelief.

"...Godchildren?" they asked together.

Jane nodded as though this were standard knowledge. "Yeah. I went to college with Jackie, Hayden's wife. We became friends there." She smiled fondly at the memory. "Funny enough, though, I ended up becoming even closer to Hayden. I was his best woman at the wedding, and afterward he made me the godmother of the kids."

Svetlana looked at Ilya. Ilya looked at Svetlana. Neither had the slightest idea what reality they had just stepped into.

"What the fuck is going on here?" Ilya muttered in Russian.

"I was about to ask the same thing," Svetlana answered under her breath.

Before either could recover, a voice squealed from across the room. "Jane!" A blur of red hair launched across the floor, wrapping Jane in a fierce hug. "You made it!"

Jane laughed, hugging her back just as tightly. "Rose!" The two women pulled apart, both grinning. Jane surveyed the room once more, gesturing toward the cluster of athletes. "What's with all the Metros?"

Rose groaned, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Oh, that's all Miles. He decided to invite everyone famous in Montreal."

Jane stared at her. "...You couldn't have warned me?"

"I forgot!"

"You forgot?" Jane repeated incredulously. "You knew who I was bringing."

"I genuinely forgot!" Rose gestured dramatically, her smile faltering slightly as he looked past Jane’s shoulder. "...Oh." Her eyes drifted toward the Montreal Metros players laughing across the room. "...Right." She winced. "You are dating Boston Bear’s captain."

"And he is in the same room as half the Metros roster," Rose covered her face. "...This is my fault."

"A little," Jane admitted.

"A lot," Rose corrected.

Svetlana watched the exchange, thoroughly amused.

Rose looked back at Ilya apologetically. "I swear I wasn't trying to start a hockey war."

"I believe you,” Ilya replied drily. "But..." Ilya glanced toward the Metros players, several of whom had finally spotted him. "...This might get interesting."

Jane reached for his hand, her fingers instantly intertwining with his. Svetlana caught the small gesture and smiled to herself.

A few months ago, Ilya would have walked into a room like this alone, wearing his usual cocky grin like armor. Now, he walked in holding someone's hand. Surrounded by rivals, movie stars, and enough celebrity egos to fill an arena, he looked more at ease than Svetlana had ever seen him.

She had once thought she would spend her life protecting him. But now, she could take a step back and simply watch him find comfort in someone else’s arms. And that made even a room full of Montreal Metros players seem remarkably easy to handle.

Svetlana found herself being dragged to a table at the back, filled with Jane’s Montreal and LA friends.

The introductions dissolved into easy laughter as everyone settled around the large table. Miles welcomed them warmly, Jackie immediately pulled Jane into a hug, and JJ exchanged a long-suffering look with Hayden.

"You're really dating her,” Hayden folded his arms as he looked at Ilya.

"I am," Ilya raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"I don't approve."

Jane sighed. "Hayden..."

"What?" he protested. "I'm your best friend. It's literally my job to disapprove of every man you bring home."

“You are my best friend, not my father!” Jane’s eyes widened as she exclaimed in embarrassment, much to everyone’s amusement.

Ilya leaned back in his chair, thoroughly entertained. "I thought Canadians were supposed to be nice."

"We are," Hayden sneered. "To everyone except Boston."

That earned a snort from JJ.

"I know plenty of hockey players I could've introduced her to," Hayden continued. "Good ones."

"They can't be that good," Ilya said without missing a beat. "If they play for the Metros."

JJ pointed dramatically toward Ilya without looking at him. "See?" he told Jane. "This is exactly the problem."

"I'm sitting right here," Ilya replied drily.

"We're aware.”

Jane pinched the bridge of her nose, but the smile pulling at her lips betrayed her. "I like him," she said simply. "You're both just going to have to deal with it."

Hayden looked personally offended. "I still think your judgment is questionable."

"I think your hockey team is questionable," Jane snapped back.

JJ gasped theatrically. "She's becoming one of them."

"I've been corrupted," Jane agreed grave-faced.

"You have," Hayden mourned.

The table erupted into laughter.

As the evening settled, they split into smaller groups. Hayden disappeared toward the pool tables with JJ, dragging Jane along despite her insistence that she was not particularly good.

"You hustle people," Hayden accused.

"I absolutely do not."

"You absolutely do," JJ agreed with his teammate.

"I just let people underestimate me," Jane defended herself.

"Exactly."

Meanwhile, Jackie ended up sitting beside Ilya. Svetlana watched, thoroughly entertained, as the two slipped into an effortless—and dangerous—alliance.

"So," Jackie began, leaning in with the sly look of a seasoned detective about to collect valuable intelligence. "Let’s swap blackmail."

Ilya blinked. "On Jane?"

"On Jane," Jackie confirmed. "I give you university dirt, you give me Boston dirt. Equal trade."

Ilya grinned. "You first."

Jackie didn't hesitate. "First year of university, she got so stressed during finals week that she tried to translate a philosophy essay into French while running on a treadmill. She passed out, fell off the back, and took out an entire rack of dumbells. When the gym staff ran over, she tried to convince them in fluent French that she was fine."

Jane’s voice boomed from across the living room. "I was fine!"

"You had a giant purple bruise on your knee for a month!" Jackie shouted back without missing a beat, before lowering her voice again. "She also tried to bake a cake for her roommate's birthday, forgot baking powder, and accidentally created a solid brick of chocolate dough so dense you could use it as a doorstop. We used it to prop open the dorm door for three weeks."

Ilya was practically shaking with quiet laughter. "Sound like her."

"Your turn," Jackie demanded, crossing her arms. "Pay up."

Ilya leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Last month in Boston, she decided to show off her 'expert' ice-skating skills at a public rink because a bunch of six-year-olds were watching."

Jackie gasped, instantly hooked. "Oh, no. What happened?"

"She attempted a basic spin, caught her edge, and did a complete faceplant right into the snowbank by the boards," Ilya said, his eyes crinkling. "She tried to play it off like a planned warm-up stretch, but the six-year-olds laughed at her and she pouted the entire drive home."

"I heard that!" Jane called out from the pool table, pointing a cue stick directly at Ilya. "That snowbank was uneven! It was a safety hazard!"

"It was flat ice, Jane," Ilya replied without missing a beat, not even turning around.

Jackie narrowed her eyes at him, a wide, wicked grin spreading across her face. "Faceplanting in front of children. That is premium material. You’re good at this."

"I have a whole list," Ilya boasted, shrugging with mock indifference.

Jackie nodded approvingly, holding up her drink. "I like you, Ilya."

"You've known me for five minutes."

"And you've already given me enough leverage to torment my friend for the next six months," Jackie said, tapping her glass against his. "That makes us partners."

Across the room, Jane banked a seemingly impossible shot. Hayden threw his hands up in defeat while JJ doubled over, laughing so hard he had to lean on his cue stick for support.

Jackie watched Jane for a moment, her expression softening into something warm. "She really is happy, though."

"Yeah," Ilya said softly, his eyes fixed on Jane, the teasing tone dropping for just a second. "She is."

Across the room, Svetlana sat with Rose and Miles. Unlike Jackie and Ilya, the three of them were perfectly comfortable letting the music fill the silences.

Rose eventually nudged her shoulder. "So..."

"So?"

"You party."

Svetlana laughed. "That obvious?"

"A little."

Miles chuckled into his drink. "Rose does too."

"Occupational hazard," Rose said. "Movie premieres become after-parties."

"I spend half my life in clubs," Svetlana admitted. “Not that I’ve been doing much partying these last few months. I got a job as an analyst for the Bears, which has been keeping me busy lately.” She let out a wistful sigh. “I do miss getting drunk.”

Rose looked thoughtful. "I don't, actually."

"You don't?"

"I like dancing." Rose shrugged. "Not really getting drunk."

Eventually, they moved on to ridiculous stories from movie sets. Rose recounted the time she accidentally set off the fire sprinklers in the middle of a high-stakes action scene, and Miles chimed in with how he had somehow managed to get locked inside a medieval castle while shooting overseas.

But the crowd favorite was a story Rose and Miles had heard directly from Jane. During one high-pressure shoot, Jane had gotten so flustered during a take that she launched into fluent Russian instead of French—entirely because she’d spent three hours on the phone with her mother that morning.

Across the room at the pool table, Jane missed the setup for her next shot as the laughter erupted from the table. She shot Rose and Miles a suspicious, squint-eyed look over her cue stick, instantly realizing which story they were telling.

At some point, a sudden realization caught her completely off guard.

Her world had always been remarkably small. For years, it had revolved around a single constant: Ilya. There was Sasha, of course, but Sasha drifted in and out of Europe whenever another festival or fashion week caught his attention. Their strange little trio worked, yet none of them had ever truly expanded beyond it.

Now, because Ilya had fallen hopelessly in love with Jane Hollander, her own world was expanding too. Jane was her friend. Now there was Jackie and JJ. Hayden, despite his dramatic disapproval of Ilya, was hilarious. Rose was effortlessly welcoming, and Miles had the easy warmth of someone who made anyone feel included.

Svetlana smiled into her drink.

Funny. She had spent years believing Ilya was her safety net. Instead, he had given her something far better: a life bigger than the one she had been clinging to.

Rose bumped her shoulder again. "What are you smiling about?"

Svetlana looked around the room before answering. "I think my circle of friends just got a lot bigger."

Rose grinned. "Good." Then she nodded toward Jane, adding with absolute confidence, "Careful, though. She collects people."

Svetlana laughed softly. "Yeah. I've noticed."

And, rather unexpectedly, she found that being collected didn't bother her one bit.

Maybe I should collect a movie star of my own, Svetlana thought, letting her gaze drift over to Rose. It had certainly worked out well enough for Ilya.

Chapter 8: Boyfriend

The team plane hummed steadily as it climbed above the clouds, the cabin gradually filling with the familiar rumble of a long-distance flight. Most of the Boston Bears were already settling into their usual road-trip routines. A few rows up, several guys were shuffling cards for a noisy game of poker, while others leaned back with eye masks pulled down or noise-canceling headphones pressed tight.

Ilya, meanwhile, had his tablet balanced carefully on the tray table in front of him, as the opening credits of Lion's Den began to play.

He had lost count of how many times he had watched the first season. Every episode, scene, and every subtle shift in expression—he knew them all by heart. Still, the moment she appeared on the screen, a sense of pride settled over him.

A shadow fell across his lap, as Cliff leaned over the backrest, squinting at the glowing screen before letting out an exaggerated groan. "Oh, for God's sake. Again?"

That immediately caught the attention of the surrounding seats.

Hammersmith craned his neck over the aisle. "Is that Lion's Den?"

"It is," Cliff confirmed, his voice booming dramatically over the roar of the engines. "Our captain has officially reached the point where the only content he consumes on team travel is his girlfriend's filmography."

A sudden chorus of jeers erupted around them.

"You are so whipped, Rozanov."

"I've never seen a grown man this down bad."

"Dude, you've streamed that season more times than the Amazon executives who greenlit it."

Ilya barely looked up from the screen, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It gets better every rewatch."

"Oh, listen to him," Cliff laughed, imitating Ilya's thick accent. "'It gets better every rewatch.'"

Connors groaned from the seat directly across the aisle, burying his face in both hands. "Oh, God. Please, no. Not Lion's Den again."

Several players turned in their seats to watch Connors unravel.

"I can't escape this show," Connors whined, sitting up to point an accusing finger at Ilya. "I go home after a road trip, and what happens? My girlfriend spends two hours ranting about how Jane Hollander was robbed during award season."

He then gestured wildly toward the front and back of the cabin.

"I come to work, and my captain starts the exact same rant. Word for word." Connors threw his hands into the air in defeat. "There is literally no escape from Jane Hollander."

Even Ilya had to laugh. "She was robbed."

"See?" Connors shouted, looking around at the rest of the team for validation. "He did it again!"

St-Simon leaned forward from the row behind them, an amused grin spreading across his face. "Forget Connors' girlfriend. Have you checked the WAGs’ group chat lately?"

Connors barked out a dark laugh. "Oh, don't remind me."

St-Simon ignored him, shaking his head in mild disbelief. "The wives and girlfriends adore Jane. Absolutely adore her. When she lost the Emmy, they were ready to riot."

"And then the Golden Globes," another teammate chimed in from two rows back. "I thought they were going to organize a physical protest outside the venue."

"They practically declared war on Los Angeles," St-Simon said. "Half the messages were variations of, 'This is an actual crime against television.'"

The cabin erupted into another wave of laughter.

Connors sighed, sinking back into his leather seat. "I'm telling you, she's become everyone's girlfriend."

"No," Cliff corrected, flashing a wide grin. "She's everyone's favorite girlfriend."

Ilya rolled his eyes, though he couldn't hide the smile that refused to leave his face. He leaned back against his headrest, tapping the frame of his tablet. "She's my girlfriend."

"Possessive," Hammersmith teased from across the aisle.

"Damn right," Ilya replied, entirely unbothered.

That answer earned a collective roar of mock groans, whistles, and shaking heads.

"Hopeless."

"Completely gone."

"Our captain never stood a chance."

They could tease him all they wanted; it wasn't his fault his girlfriend made the best television in the country.

A few rows back, Koslov made a thoughtful humming sound before speaking up. "Cap?"

Ilya turned in his seat.

"Are the rumors true?"

"No," he replied without missing a beat. "I haven't proposed.” A smug grin spread across Ilya's face. “Yet."

Half the cabin burst into laughter.

"Though Jane did move into my penthouse right before we left for this road trip."

That earned an immediate chorus of cheers and congratulations across the plane.

"No way!"

"About damn time."

"You lucky bastard."

"I still don't understand how you managed to score someone so ridiculously out of your league," Cliff chimed in.

"Seriously," Hammersmith added. "She's gorgeous, brilliant, speaks four languages, models for Dior... and somehow she chose your ugly mug."

Ilya placed a hand dramatically over his heart, looking wounded. "You hurt me deeply."

The laughter had barely settled when Koslov shook his head, looking down at his phone. "That isn't what I meant."

The noise in the cabin died down slightly.

"I mean, I'm happy for you, Cap," Koslov clarified, holding up his screen. "But someone snapped a picture of Jane having lunch with McCain this afternoon, and the internet is going crazy."

"McCain?" Ilya frowned.

Koslov nodded. "I didn't even know Jane was in New York."

"She had a Dior show there," Ilya explained. "She stayed an extra day so she could watch us destroy the Admirals tonight." He paused, a hint of genuine confusion creeping into his voice. "Who is McCain?"

His blue eyes narrowed slightly. "Should I be jealous?"

Cliff barked out a laugh. "There he goes."

"I knew it," Hammersmith snickered. "Our captain is the possessive-type."

Cliff patted Ilya's shoulder reassuringly. "Relax, Romeo. McCain is practically grandpa status."

Another round of chuckles spread through the seats.

"He's, however, one of the biggest horror directors in the industry," Cliff continued. "The guy is a legend."

Koslov nodded, still scrolling. "That's why everyone is losing it. The big theory online is that Jane is starring in his next feature."

A few impressed whistles sounded around the plane.

"That would be massive."

"If it's real."

Ilya shrugged, entirely unfazed. "I'm not surprised."

Everyone turned to look at him.

"Directors are always trying to hire Jane," he said matter-of-factly, pride lacing his tone. "She's an incredible actress." He leaned back into his headrest, picking up his tablet. "Whether she's taking a role—or whether there even is a role—I have no idea."

A small, easy smile touched his lips.

"We're landing in New York in less than an hour anyway. I'll just ask her in person."

The plane touched down in New York just as the city lights began to glow against the darkening sky. The moment they taxied toward the gate, the entire cabin seemed to wake up—players unbuckling, stretching, and grabbing their bags while coaches tried to keep some semblance of order.

Ilya, however, was in an unusually good mood.

He was a city boy at heart. He loved the energy of places like New York—the noise, the lights, the feeling that something was always happening just around the corner. Boston had become home, but New York still thrilled him in a way that reminded him of the excitement he used to feel in Moscow as a teenager.

And this trip was even better than usual. Because Jane was waiting for him.

The team bus ride from the airport to the hotel was loud and full of playoff adrenaline. Someone put music on, while others started arguing about tomorrow's power-play matchups, and every few minutes one of the guys would lean into the aisle to yell something in Ilya's direction.

"Cap's getting lucky tonight!"

"Don't pull a muscle, old man!"

"Remember us little people when you become Mr. Jane Hollander!"

Ilya only waved them off with a lazy smirk, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a bigger reaction. By the time they reached the hotel, the teasing had escalated into whistles and exaggerated catcalls as he grabbed his duffel bag.

"Go get your girl, Captain!"

"Tell Jane we say hi!"

"Use protection!"

"Jesus Christ," Cliff muttered, shoving Hammersmith toward the elevators. "We're professionals."

"Speak for yourself," Hammersmith replied.

Ilya shook his head, laughing softly as he made his way down the quiet hallway to his room. The moment he opened the door, Jane looked up from the armchair, her face lighting up instantly. "Ilya!"

She crossed the room in three quick steps and practically launched herself into his arms. He caught her instinctively, lifting her off the floor as she wrapped herself around him, and Ilya buried his face in her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of jasmine shampoo.

God, he had missed her.

He had never realized how much he wanted someone waiting for him at the end of a road trip until Jane entered his life.

When they finally pulled back, Jane was smiling so brightly that his heart ached. "You look exhausted," she said, taking his duffel bag from him.

"And you look suspiciously happy."

"That's because my boyfriend is here."

The word boyfriend still sent a ridiculous thrill through him.

As Jane helped him unpack, folding shirts with the efficiency of someone who had spent years living out of suitcases herself, they fell easily into conversation.

"So," Ilya began, sitting on the edge of the bed and stretching his long legs out, "Koslov almost gave me a heart attack on the plane."

Jane glanced over her shoulder. "Oh?"

"He asked if the rumors were true about you having lunch with McCain."

She immediately burst out laughing. "Oh my God, that picture."

"So, it's true."

"It is," she admitted. "I was literally just having lunch when he sat down in front of me and started pitching me a movie."

Ilya blinked. "He just... sat down?"

"Apparently that's how famous horror directors recruit actresses now."

"Should I start doing that with free agents?"

Jane snorted. "Please don't." She tucked another shirt into the drawer. "He was already at the restaurant. Once he realized who I was, he took advantage of the situation."

Ilya leaned back on his hands, watching her closely. "And are you interested?"

Jane hummed thoughtfully. "I am."

That caught his attention. "Really?"

"It's a horror film," she explained. "Very much a McCain film." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "It's about a pair of haunted ballet slippers and a ballerina preparing for her role as Clara in The Nutcracker."

Ilya froze at the word ballet.

They had talked about this before—about how complicated ballet was for Jane. About how she sometimes felt trapped between honoring her mother's legacy and wanting to prove that she could succeed on her own, not simply as Yuna Sato's daughter.

Concern must have shown on his face, because Jane smiled softly. "I know what you're thinking."

He didn't even try to deny it.

"If this were a normal ballet movie, I would have said no immediately," she admitted, walking over to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. "But the horror aspect is what makes it interesting."

She gestured lightly as she spoke. "McCain wants someone with a genuinely strong ballet background because the choreography is supposed to become increasingly disturbing. Think classical ballet mixed with contortion and body horror."

Ilya stared at her for a second before laughing. "Of course that's the part that interested you."

Jane grinned unapologetically. "It's a challenge."

"You're absurdly competitive."

"Only with myself."

That was true. One of the things he admired most about Jane was that her ambition was rarely about beating other people; it was about discovering whether she could push herself further than she thought possible.

"Can you even film that and season two at the same time?" he asked.

"The movie would be scheduled around season three, not season two,” Jane corrected gently. “McCain was surprisingly flexible, though I believe that is mostly because he wanted to sweeten the deal for me." She pulled out her phone. "I'm going to call Farrah tomorrow and see if we can align the shooting schedule with your away games."

Ilya raised an eyebrow. "You'd do that?"

"Well, the movie would be filmed in New York. If we time it correctly, I could work while you're on road trips and spend more time in Boston when you're home."

The casual, effortless way she included him in her future plans made something warm unfurl in his chest.

Then a realization struck him, and his mouth curved into a wide grin. "Wait."

Jane looked up from her screen. "What?"

"If this movie premieres in October, you'll officially have another holiday movie in your collection."

Jane burst into laughter so hard she nearly fell against him. "Oh my God, you're impossible."

Ilya wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his side, thoroughly pleased with himself. "Tell me I'm wrong."

She buried her face against his shoulder, her shoulders shaking as she kept laughing. "I hate that you're technically right."

They laughed together, before finishing unpacking, and making their way to the Admirals’ home rink.

The game had been every bit as difficult as Ilya had expected.

He loved chirping Scott Hunter whenever the opportunity presented itself, but the New York Admirals were one of the strongest teams in the league for a reason. Every shift was hard-earned, every inch of ice contested, and for most of the night, neither team managed to pull away.

Whenever play stopped, though, Ilya's eyes inevitably drifted toward the jumbotron. Every single time the cameras found Jane sitting among a sea of Admirals red, wearing her black-and-gold Boston Bears jersey without the slightest hint of embarrassment, he couldn't help smiling.

Even when the Bears were trailing.

Especially then.

Seeing her cheer for him so openly somehow settled him.

In the end, Boston pulled ahead by a single goal. It was ugly, exhausting, and utterly perfect. After all, a win was a win.

The locker room buzzed with the familiar energy that followed a hard-fought playoff victory. Equipment hit the floor, music blasted from the speakers, and everyone talked over one another.

Hammersmith was the first to start. "Cap, you almost embarrassed yourself in front of your girlfriend out there."

"I thought you were supposed to be the best player on the ice."

"Jane deserves a refund."

"One-goal win," Cliff sighed dramatically. "Poor girl must've been terrified."

Ilya rolled his eyes as he unlaced his skates. "You all want bag skates tomorrow?"

The room immediately erupted into laughter.

"Oh, he's serious,” Hammersmith teased, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

"There is no respect in this team," Ilya grumbled.

"There isn't."

"And it's your fault."

"It probably is."

Even Ilya found himself laughing.

Once everyone had showered and changed into their daily clothes, the team made its way toward the players' exit, where family and friends were waiting. However, the moment they entered the waiting area, several Bears slowed to a stop.

Ilya frowned at the scene before him. Jane was standing a few feet away, smiling as she chatted comfortably with Scott Hunter. Without saying a word, he walked over, slipped in behind Jane, wrapped both arms around her waist, and rested his chin lightly on top of her head. Then he looked directly at the Admiral.

"Hunter," he said, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Are you bothering my girlfriend?"

Scott looked between the two of them before an amused smirk spread across his face. "Not at all."

Jane laughed softly, covering one of Ilya's hands with her own.

"It was nice seeing you again," Scott told her before glancing back at Ilya. "Take care of him."

"I'll do my best," Jane promised.

Scott nodded politely before walking away toward the Admirals' locker room, as the Bears watched him leave with identical expressions of confusion.

Ilya gently turned Jane around in his arms until they were facing each other. "First the Metros," he complained, pouting down at her, "and now an Admiral."

Jane was already trying not to laugh.

"Do you know everyone in the NHL?"

She reached up and patted his cheek the way one might soothe an overly dramatic child. "Scott's a great guy."

"Oh?"

"During one of my first years as an actress, I attended a charity gala in New York," her smile softened at the memory. "I ended up having a panic attack."

Ilya's posture stiffened, as concerned flashed through his face.

Jane continued before he could ask anything. "No one noticed. Well... no one except Scott." She shrugged lightly. "He quietly asked if I was okay, guided me to a private room, stayed with me until I could breathe normally again, and then waited until I was ready to go back."

She offered a small, grateful smile. "He saved me from having a panic attack in front of hundreds of people."

The hallway fell noticeably quieter.

Cliff let out a low whistle. "I already knew Hunter was a good guy," he admitted, "but my respect for the Admirals' captain just went way up."

Several teammates nodded in quiet agreement.

"Class act."

"That's exactly what you'd hope someone would do."

"Good on him."

Even Ilya nodded, his chest tightening slightly at the thought of Jane suffering alone back then. "I still don't like him very much."

Jane rolled her eyes affectionately.

"But..." Ilya admitted, wrapping his arms a little tighter around her, "I'm glad he was there for you."

And he meant it. Whatever rivalry existed on the ice was insignificant compared to knowing that someone had protected Jane when she needed it most.

Still...

He looked down at the jersey she was wearing, the bold Boston crest sitting right over her heart. And a slow, satisfied smile spread across his face.

"At least," he said, pulling her flush against his side, "the only hockey jersey you ever wear is mine."

Jane looked down at the black-and-gold Bears sweater before smiling up at him. "It is my favorite one."

That answer earned a chorus of exaggerated groans from the surrounding Bears.

"Oh, come on."

"They're getting cheesier."

"I think I'm going to throw up."

St-Simon pointed dramatically at the couple. "Can we trade our captain?"

"Unfortunately, there’s no refunds," Cliff replied, slinging a gym bag over his shoulder. "He's permanently whipped now."

Ilya didn't even bother arguing. With Jane tucked safely against his side, surrounded by the loud, familiar laughter of his teammates, he couldn't think of a single reason to.

The team eventually made it back to the hotel well past ten.

Normally, after a win, Ilya was buzzing with residual adrenaline. Playoff victories always left him restless, energized, and more often than not, eager to drag Jane upstairs the moment they reached their room to burn off the excess tension.

Tonight, though?

Tonight he was exhausted.

The last few weeks on the road had caught up with him all at once. Every muscle in his body ached, his left knee was throbbing a dull, rhythmic beat, and there was a fresh bruise blossoming along his ribs. If anyone judged him for wanting nothing more than a quiet, hot meal and a soft bed after playing nearly sixty minutes of grueling, playoff-level hockey against the Admirals, they could kindly go play an NHL game themselves.

Thankfully, Jane understood him perfectly.

The two of them settled into a dimly lit, secluded corner of the hotel restaurant, enjoying the rare luxury of simply eating together without cameras, interview requests, or loud teammates interrupting them. The ambient jazz and the clinking of silverware was the only soundtrack to their night.

Or at least, it was supposed to be.

A familiar, theatrical voice suddenly rang through the restaurant.

"There you are!"

Before Ilya could even look up from his steak, a chair scraped loudly across the polished hardwood floor, and Sasha dropped into it as if he belonged there, practically radiating unearned confidence.

The hostess immediately hurried toward the table, her eyes wide with panic, clearly concerned that a stranger had just bypassed her stand and invited himself to dine with VIP hotel guests.

Ilya pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache begin to form behind his eyes. "It's fine," he sighed tiredly, waving her away before she could intervene and make it a whole ordeal.

Once she had reluctantly retreated, Ilya looked flatly across the table. "Sasha."

"Yes?"

"What are you doing in New York?"

Instead of answering, Sasha fixed him with a brief, annoyed glare before immediately turning his attention to Jane. His entire demeanor changed. The haughty, untouchable aura vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unfiltered awe, as a dazzling smile appeared on his face.

"Jane," he said warmly in absolutely flawless English, "I am a huge admirer of your work."

Ilya raised an eyebrow. He had honestly expected Sasha to switch to rapid-fire French just for the sole purpose of annoying him.

"I also firmly believe," Sasha continued dramatically, placing a hand reverently over his heart, "that you were absolutely robbed during award season."

Jane blinked, processing the sudden intrusion, before muttering quietly under her breath. "What is it with New York and people just inviting themselves to sit at my table?"

Ilya had to bite the inside of his cheek to hold back a laugh.

Then, she smiled politely at Sasha, extending her hand across the table. "I've heard so much about you from Sveta. It's nice to finally put a face to the infamous Sasha."

And Sasha...

...giggled.

He actually giggled.

Then—

He blushed. A visible, pink flush spread across his high cheekbones.

Ilya stared, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth. He was almost certain he'd suffered an undiagnosed concussion during the second period. There was no other explanation for the visual hallucination occurring in front of him.

What the fuck?

Sasha was, without exaggeration, one of the most shameless men Ilya had ever met. Over the years, Ilya had personally witnessed the man successfully flirt with:

• Flight attendants mid-turbulence.
• Intimidating customs officers at the border.
• Morning television hosts on live broadcast.
• And, most memorably, a Boston police officer who had been in the middle of writing him a parking ticket.

Yet now... Jane smiled at him once... and Sasha was blushing?

He must have been an even bigger fan of hers than Ilya had originally thought.

Unsurprisingly, the conversation naturally shifted into French. Within seconds, the two of them were deep into an animated discussion about Québec cinema, avant-garde directors, and obscure actors Ilya had never heard of in his life.

Meanwhile, he sat there silently, poking at his food.

Pouting.

His date had somehow been stolen.

By Sasha.

Who is gay.

He stabbed another piece of steak with considerably more force than necessary, letting the silverware clink loudly against the ceramic plate.

Jane laughed beautifully at something Sasha said.

Sasha laughed back, his eyes sparkling.

Still in French.

Ilya sighed dramatically, slumping back against his booth. "This is discrimination."

Neither of them acknowledged him.

"I am being excluded."

Still nothing.

"I don't even know what you're saying."

Jane paused, glancing at him with a fond, apologetic smile before switching briefly to English. "We're talking about French cinema."

"I know you're talking about French cinema," Ilya grumbled, crossing his arms. "I'm complaining because I can't understand French cinema."

That earned a bright, musical laugh from both of them.

Honestly... he couldn't even be jealous.

Not really.

Just a few weeks ago, before leaving for the road trip, he'd finally done the thing that had terrified him for over a year. Sweating, nervous, and entirely out of his depth, he had sat Jane down, admitted that he was bisexual, told her he loved her, and asked if she would officially be his girlfriend.

Jane had simply laughed—a warm, beautiful sound that instantly calmed down his anxiety. "Ilya," she'd said, looking completely bewildered but overwhelmingly fond, "I thought we already were."

Then she'd kissed him, moved her boxes into his penthouse, and somehow, through dozens of everyday moments, made him feel utterly ridiculous for ever doubting her feelings.

So, what if Sasha had hijacked one post-game dinner?

Ilya had a lifetime of dinners ahead of him.

Besides...

Watching Jane animatedly discuss the films she loved, her hands moving excitedly as she spoke, the light in her dark eyes shining brighter than the city lights...

He found that he didn't mind sharing the conversation. Not when the brilliant, stunning woman smiling across the table had already chosen him.

Chapter 9: Adore You

The press room smelled like sweat, stale coffee, and overly aggressive aftershave—the standard aroma after a high-stakes playoff game. Ilya sat behind the microphone, still in his damp base layer, idly tracing the scratches on the table.

He was tired. The Bears had pulled off a brutal double-overtime victory against the Toronto Guardians, his shoulder was throbbing, and all he wanted was to go home, sink into the couch, and wait for Jane to come back from her shoot.

Instead, he was doing media obligations.

"Ilya! Over here!"

A reporter in the third row stood up, clutching a notebook with a look of smug satisfaction. Ilya didn't recognize him—definitely not one of the usual Boston beat writers who knew better than to poke him on game days. Probably a national tabloid columnist looking for a clickbait quote.

"You and Jane have been the talk of the season," the reporter began, adjusting his glasses. "The internet is practically exploding over those photos of the two of you at the Cartier boutique in New York last week. So, the question on everyone's mind... when can we expect a wedding? Maybe soon there will be a little Hollanov on the ice? Are you guys planning on starting a family anytime soon?"

The room dropped into an awkward silence, the tension thick enough that a few veteran local beat writers visibly winced and abruptly found the keys of their laptops fascinating. Instead of exploding with his usual fiery temper, Ilya simply shifted. He leaned forward, digging his broad forearms into the table, and fixed the reporter with a flat, unblinking stare that proved far more terrifying than a scowl ever could.

"I would love to have a baby with my lovely Jane," Ilya answered, his tone entirely even, even if his Russian accent came out thick. "But I do not have plans to retire next season."

He paused, tilting his head as if re-evaluating his entire life trajectory right there on the spot. "Or... at least, I did not before your question."

The press room remained frozen in absolute, suffocating confusion.

A pen dropped somewhere in the back, the tiny plastic clack against the carpet sounding ridiculously loud. Near the exit, the Bears’ veteran PR representative froze mid-step, his jaw hanging slightly open as his brain visibly scrambled to process what he’d just heard.

What???? was practically written across forty different journalists' faces.

"Well," Ilya continued casually, shrugging one shoulder. "That is what is implicit in your question, yes?"

The reporter blinked, completely thrown off his script. "What? No. What do you mean? You don't have to retire to have a kid. Half the guys in your locker room have children and keep playing full seasons."

"Aaaaah," Ilya dragged out the word, nodding slowly as if finally understanding the reporter's sheer ignorance. "Yes. But children need parents. And those guys have fantastic partners who work very hard as the main caretakers of their children. Women who are practically single parents while their husbands travel for six to nine months out of the year."

He crossed his arms over his chest, his tone remaining totally conversational, yet dropping like heavy blocks of ice into the room.

"Jane and I both have very demanding and chaotic schedules," Ilya explained smoothly. "In fact, my schedule is much more stable than hers. I have home games and a set off-season. Jane's filming and promotional schedule can happen at any time of the year. Filming can take more than twelve hours a day, six days a week. She could be filming one project while preparing for another, or a director might recall her for reshoots six months later. Very chaotic."

He leaned in closer to the microphone.

"And considering she would have to slow down or pause her career for at least two years between pregnancy and recovery, and my job is far more dangerous—I could get a severe concussion, a blade to the neck, or a career-ending knee injury at any moment—it makes far more sense for me to be the primary caretaker while my beautiful Jane works."

Ilya offered a bright, entirely pleasant, yet utterly terrifying smile.

"So. You will know when a baby is coming. Because I will retire."

He let the silence stretch for three full seconds, enjoying the absolute, stun-gunned paralysis of the media pool.

"Next question," Ilya said brightly.

When no one dared break the spell, he gave the microphone a light, decisive tap, grabbed his water bottle, and stood up from the dais. Ilya pushed through the heavy press room doors, leaving behind forty journalists still trying to process his casual announcement about early retirement.

His shoulder throbbed in rhythm with his pulse as he walked down the dimly lit hallway toward the home locker room. The double-overtime win against Toronto had taken everything out of him, and at this point, he was running on pure spite and coffee.

He turned the corner near the ice tunnel, only to spot a familiar blue-and-white jersey, as Miller leaned against the wall.

The Toronto Guardians forward was still in his full gear minus his helmet, nursing a Gatorade and looking like a man whose entire world had just collapsed. Given that Boston had just knocked them out of the playoffs on home ice, he had every reason to look bitter.

Miller looked up, his eyes locking onto Ilya, with a sneer on his face. "Nice press conference, Rozanov," he spat, setting his drink down. "Saw it on the hallway monitor. What, does the ball and chain have you on such a tight leash that you're turning into a stay-at-home dad now?"

Ilya stopped. Rather than tensing up or letting a scowl cross his face, he simply held Miller’s gaze with a look of genuine, unbothered curiosity.

The other man scoffed, emboldened by Ilya's silence. "Seriously, man. You're the captain of the Bears, and you sound completely whipped. She's got you trained like a dog. Can't even leave the house without asking permission?"

Ilya tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly as he processed the insult.

"Do you guys not like your wives?" Ilya asked, his Russian accent heavy and completely free of sarcasm.

Miller blinked, caught entirely off guard. "What?"

"I am asking," Ilya said, his voice entirely conversational as he took a step closer, "do you not like your wives? Because every time you guys talk about your partners, you talk like you are in prison. The old ball and chain. She is keeping me on a leash."

Ilya paused, letting out a soft sigh of pity.

"It sounds exhausting," Ilya continued smoothly, looking down at the Toronto forward. "To live with someone you complain about all the time. Maybe you should give them the chance to find someone who actually enjoys spending time with them."

Miller’s jaw worked silently, his face flushing a deep, humiliated red, but no words came out. He just stared, completely frozen.

Ilya gave him a polite, pleasant nod. "Good series, Miller. Enjoy the early vacation."

He didn't wait for a reply. Ilya pushed open the heavy wooden doors to the Boston locker room, where the rest of the guys were already singing along to terrible pop music, throwing ice wraps, and celebrates their spot in the next round.

Thirty minutes later, showered, dressed in a comfortable Adidas tracksuit, and smelling infinitely better than he had an hour ago, Ilya grabbed his heavy duffel bag and swung it over his shoulder. He walked out through the quiet arena corridors toward his car, the adrenaline of the evening finally settling into a mild, manageable hum. The drive through Boston went entirely without issue, the late-night traffic sparse as the city lights flickered across the windshield.

His phone buzzed on the dashboard with a text from Jane: Just wrapped on set. Heading home now. I'm exhausted, but I heard you won. Congrats!

A soft, easy smile broke across his face as he navigated the city streets toward his penthouse.

Jane hadn't been able to make it to the game tonight—a twelve-hour shoot for her show had kept her on set until past midnight—but knowing she was on her way home made the brutal sixty-plus minutes of playoff hockey entirely worth it.

He didn't care about the tabloids, the bewildered reporters, or sore losers in the hallway. In a few minutes, he’d be home with his favorite person in the world, and that was the only thing that mattered.

By morning, however, the rest of the world had caught up to what Ilya considered a minor, forgettable moment.

The video hit the internet less than twelve hours later.

Some staff member had caught the entire interaction on their phone, recording from the shadowy end of the hallway near the media exit. The clip was crisp, the audio was horrifyingly clear, and within three hours of being posted anonymously to TikTok, it had racked up twenty million views.

The backlash hit the Toronto Guardians like a freight train.

What started as hockey Twitter cackling at Ilya Rozanov’s completely earnest, deadpan destruction of Miller quickly escalated into a full-blown cultural moment. Women across North America began stitching the video with captions like "If he wanted to, he would" and "The bare minimum is in hell, but Ilya Rozanov just raised the bar to space."

Within forty-eight hours, three different Guardians players had been dumped by their girlfriends. By the end of the week, a prominent Toronto defensemen’s wife had officially scrubbed him from her Instagram and hired a high-profile divorce attorney, citing "reasons highlighted by the captain of the Boston Bears."

The Guardians roster tried to retaliate online, posting vague, bitter tweets about "locker room code" and blaming Ilya for ruining families. The internet, naturally, ate them alive. Every single tweet was ratioed to oblivion by fans pointing out that Ilya hadn't exposed any secrets; he had simply asked if they liked their wives.

Inside Ilya’s penthouse, the mood couldn't have been more different.

The spacious living room was filled with the warm, rich aroma of brewed black tea and toasted pecans. Around the coffee table, four people were piled onto the plush velvet sofas, completely untroubled by the storm raging on social media.

Svetlana was curled up in the corner with her feet tucked under her, scrolling through Twitter on her phone, while Sasha sat cross-legged on the rug, practically vibrating with glee.

"Look at this one!" Sasha cackled, holding his iPad out for everyone to see. "The Guardians released an official statement asking for privacy, and the top reply with fifty thousand likes is just a GIF of Ilya asking, 'Do you guys not like your wives?' I am pinning it to the Bears' official account."

Ilya grinned, taking a sip from his porcelain cup.

Having Sasha in Boston still felt like a bizarre, incredible dream. Jane had been the one to gently suggest it a few months ago—noticing how much Sasha loved the city during his visits and how effortlessly he managed his own online presence. One conversation with the Bears' front office later, and Sasha had been hired as the team's new Social Media Manager. He had taken to the job with terrifying efficiency, transforming the Bears' online image into one of the most entertaining accounts in professional sports.

Jane really had a way of changing people. She hadn't just brought warmth back into Ilya's life; she had somehow gathered his disjointed, scattered childhood friends and built them a home right here in Boston.

Ilya set his cup down, leaning back against the cushions as his eyes drifted to the center of the table. Sitting proudly on a silver trivet was a traditional Russian samovar, steam rising softly from its brass spout. Beside it sat a large ceramic platter piled high with Russian tea cakes.

Living with Jane meant witnessing the terrifying, beautiful extent of her dedication to her craft. Every dish her character cooked on The Lion's Den was made entirely by Jane, his girlfriend refusing to use food doubles, or any sort of tricks. She would spend weeks practicing a single recipe in their kitchen until every step was second nature. Lately, her character was preparing for an episode featuring traditional Slavic pastries, which meant Ilya had spent the last fortnight acting as her chief taste-tester.

He certainly wasn't complaining.

He picked up a tea cake, feeling the delicate, sweet layer of powdered sugar dust his fingertips. He took a bite, melting instantly into the rich, buttery crunch of finely chopped nuts and tender shortbread.

"Jane," Ilya moaned around the mouthful, his eyes fluttering shut in genuine bliss. "If you ever decide to stop acting, you can open a bakery. I will buy everything."

Jane, sitting beside him in an oversized knit sweater, flushed a pretty pink and laughed softly. She reached for the tea cozy, carefully topping off his cup with hot water from the samovar, a skill she had spent three days mastering just to surprise him.

"I'm glad you like them," she said, her thumb lightly brushing a stray speck of powdered sugar from his cheek. "Your mother’s recipe took me four tries to get the dough texture right."

Svetlana looked up from her phone, her expression softening as she took a bite of her own pastry. "They really are incredible, Jane. Better than the ones back in Moscow."

"Don't tell my aunt that," Sasha warned, though he was already reaching for his third cake. "She’ll fly to America just to challenge Jane to a bake-off." He looked down at his iPad again, his face lighting up with fresh mischief. "Oh, brilliant. The Toronto Guardians just turned off their Instagram comments."

"Cowards," Svetlana scoffed, sipping her tea.

"Absolute cowards," Sasha agreed. "I’m going to post a photo of our team's roster holding flowers for their wives with the caption 'We like ours.'"

Ilya let out a deep, rumble of a laugh, wrapping one long arm around Jane's shoulders and pulling her flush against his side. She leaned into him naturally, resting her head against his chest as the four of them continued reading the internet's breakdown.

He took another bite of the sweet pastry, listening to the familiar, chaotic banter of his oldest friends mixed with the soft laughter of the woman he loved. The media could talk all they wanted, and rival teams could throw their tantrums, but sitting here in his home, surrounded by his favorite people in the world, Ilya had never felt richer.

Sasha leaned back against the plush rug, setting his empty tea cup down and tapping his chin with the edge of his iPad. A sudden, dangerous glint appeared in his eyes—the exact look that usually meant the Bears' media team was about to cause a small PR hurricane.

"Jane," Sasha began, putting on his most persuasive, pitch-ready expression. "Speaking of content... season two of The Lion's Den is starting press next month, yes?"

Jane looked up from her tea, a amused smile tugging at her lips. "It is. Farrah's been finalizing the schedule all week."

"Would you let me post some sneak peeks on the official Bears account?" Sasha asked, waving his hands expansively. "Red carpet looks, behind-the-scenes PR prep... specifically, the photos where our beloved Captain is standing next to you looking like a very tall, very proud bodyguard?"

Ilya shot Sasha a look over his teacup. "I am not a bodyguard."

"You wear a suit and look intensely at anyone who steps within five feet of her," Sasha countered without missing a beat. "You are a bodyguard. And the fans will lose their minds."

Jane laughed softly, shaking her head. "I don't mind, Sasha. It's fine by me—if you clear the specific photos with Farrah first. She has a very strict embargo schedule with the studio before the premiere."

"I will text her right now," Sasha declared, already typing furiously. "Farrah loves me. She will say yes."

Across the table, Svetlana dusted a bit of powdered sugar off her fingers and turned toward Jane, her tone shifting to something quieter, more curious. "What about the rest of the postseason, Jane? Will you actually be able to make it to the Stanley Cup Finals?"

Ilya subconsciously held his breath, his arm tightening just a fraction around Jane's waist. After all, he knew how relentless her schedule could be.

Jane leaned further into Ilya’s side, resting her hand over his knee. "Principal photography wrapped two days ago," she explained, her voice relaxing into the relief of a finished project. "The rest of the PR tour involves a lot of traveling, but it's on a fixed schedule. It's much easier to work around than a twelve-hour filming day where things get pushed continuously."

She smiled up at Ilya, her dark eyes warm. "Which means I've already cleared my calendar for the Detroit series and I'm flying out with the team for the road games."

Ilya didn't even try to hide the smug, triumphant grin that instantly spread across his face. He leaned back, resting his chin on the top of her head with an air of absolute, unbothered victory.

"You hear that?" Ilya announced to the room, his Russian accent dropping an octave with pure satisfaction. "My girlfriend is coming to Detroit."

"Oh, Lord," Svetlana teased, rolling her eyes. "Look at him. His ego is going to fill the entire penthouse."

"Let him be smug," Sasha grumbled from the floor, though he was smiling. "At least when Jane is at the away games, he plays like he actually wants to go home early."

Jane only chuckled, turning her attention back to Svetlana. "Besides, I've been looking at the Red Wings' recent line changes. Their top defensive pairing has been leaking high-danger chance opportunities in the third period all month."

Svetlana perked up immediately, leaning forward. "Right? Their transition game from the defensive zone is completely disjointed without their primary playmaker."

"Exactly," Jane agreed, gesturing with her cup. "If Boston aggressively forechecks their left side, their turnover rate spikes by almost fifteen percent, and their goalies can't handle that kind of sustained pressure."

Svetlana nodded approvingly. "Which means as long as the Bears control the neutral zone, Detroit doesn't stand a chance. It's a four-game sweep, five at most."

Ilya’s smugness reached unprecedented heights. He sat back, wrapped both arms securely around Jane, and rested his chin back on her shoulder, looking at Sasha and Svetlana as if he personally owned the entire sport of hockey.

Not only was his girlfriend coming on the road trip, but she was sitting in his living room, eating homemade Russian tea cakes, and casually breaking down the Detroit Red Wings' defensive flaws like a veteran analyst.

"See?" Ilya said smoothly, taking a slow sip of his tea. "The math is done. We win."

And win they did.

The playoff run against the Red Wings turned out to be the absolute best two weeks of Ilya’s entire life.

Having Jane at every single game was a revelation. During the home games in Boston, the post-game routine lost all its usual restlessness—there was no lingering in the locker room trying to burn off residual adrenaline or pacing the floor of his empty penthouse. He just showered, packed his things, and drove home with her, winding down over late-night meals in their kitchen while she listened to him break down every shift.

And the road games in Detroit were even better.

For years, hotel rooms on the road had felt cold, sterile, and maddeningly lonely. Now, after grueling sixty-minute battles on Detroit ice, Ilya would walk into his room, kick off his shoes, and immediately pull Jane into his arms. Falling asleep with her tucked securely against his chest, her soft breaths warm against his neck, made the ache in his muscles entirely vanish.

Naturally, the media circus followed them everywhere.

Being the captain of a championship hockey team made Ilya a massive sports star, but the global, meteoric success of The Lion’s Den had elevated Jane into a completely different tier of fame. Together, they were absolute clickbait gold. Paparazzi camped outside their hotel in downtown Detroit, flashbulbs exploding the moment they so much as stepped into the lobby.

It did piss Ilya off a little. He didn't give a damn about his own privacy when it came to reporters, but he knew Jane loved doing normal, boring "couple things" like grabbing a quiet coffee down the street, or taking a slow walk through the city, and exploring local spots. Being trapped inside the hotel to avoid a mob of camera lenses felt stifling.

"Next year," Ilya had grumbled into her hair one afternoon while they ordered room service, "I buy us a private island for the off-season. No cameras. Only us."

Jane had just laughed, kissing his jaw. "Deal."

In the end, every single second of the madness was worth it.

Game Five on home ice was a masterclass in dominant hockey. The Bears dismantled Detroit's defense just as Jane and Svetlana had predicted, controlling the neutral zone and suffocating every breakout attempt. When the final horn blared, the arena exploded into absolute bedlam.

Confetti rained down from the rafters, blinding under the arena lights, as the Stanley Cup was wheeled onto the ice.

Raising the Cup for the third year in a row was an indescribable rush—the weight of the trophy heavy in his hands, his teammates screaming around him, and the crowd roaring until the glass vibrated. But the moment the cup left his hands and passed to Cliff, Ilya’s eyes immediately searched the chaos along the boards.

Family and friends were let onto the ice.

Jane was wearing her black-and-gold Bears jersey—his number emblazoned on the back—and a pair of sleek black boots, navigating the slick ice with cautious steps. Ilya didn't wait. He skated straight toward her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and lifted her completely off her feet.

Jane gasped, laughing as she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. Ilya pulled her flush against him, ignoring the cold spray of ice beneath his skates, the flashing cameras of fifty photographers lined along the glass, and the millions of people watching on live television.

He tilted her face up and kissed her—hard, deep, and breathless.

The crowd roared even louder, a few of his teammates whistling dramatically as they skated past, but Ilya didn't care. He held her close, feeling the heat of her smile against his lips, the taste of champagne and victory sweet on his tongue.

When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, Jane was beaming, her eyes bright with unshed tears of pure pride. "Three in a row, Cap," she whispered, her hands resting over his bruised shoulders.

Ilya smiled, his Russian accent rough with exhaustion and joy as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I do not care about three," he murmured softly, pulling her tight against his chest. "I only care that you are here for the last two.”

“And many more to come,” Jane replied without missing a beat.

The summer unfolded like a mirror image of the previous year, with Ilya doing the trailing.

Wherever Jane went for The Lion’s Den promotional tour, Ilya was precisely one step behind her. He stood off to the side during chaotic Comic-Con panels, patiently leaning against a speaker stack in a custom hoodie while fans shouted questions at the cast. He hovered backstage during late-night talk shows in Los Angeles, quietly nursing a black coffee in the green room while Jane got her hair and makeup retouched between segments. He was there for every press junket, every interview, and every blinding red carpet from New York to London.

And, naturally, every red carpet required them to look the part.

Jane’s mother—who had fully assumed the role of an unstoppable, hyper-efficient "Momager"—had taken one look at Ilya’s massive frame, broad shoulders, and jawline and immediately went to work. Before Ilya even realized what was happening, Yuna had orchestrated high-fashion sponsorships with both Dior and Cartier. Within weeks, the couple was stepping onto red carpets draped in tailored Dior couture and gleaming Cartier timepieces, looking less like a hockey captain and an actress, and more like royalty.

Yuna had even hinted, with a very pleased smirk over lunch, that a campaign for the new face of Dior Sauvage was currently being finalized with his agent.

Ilya didn't care about the high fashion, the free suits, or the luxury watches. He didn't even care when the internet inevitably picked up on his absolute, unmitigated devotion.

It had started, as most chaos in Ilya’s life did, with Sasha.

During a major Los Angeles premiere, while Jane was standing in the center of the press wall bathed in the flashing white light of fifty cameras, Sasha had quietly whipped out his phone from the sidelines. He recorded a twenty-second video of Ilya standing ten feet back in the shadows, dressed in a sleek black tuxedo, completely oblivious to the crowd, staring at Jane with an expression of pure, unfiltered, dopey adoration.

Sasha had posted it to the Bears’ official Instagram account with the caption: “Our Captain off the ice.”

The video went viral within hours, eventually making its way to YouTube, TikTok, and every major entertainment outlet. Headlines quickly dubbed him "The Ultimate WAG," but Ilya didn't mind the teasing from his teammates or the endless compilations of his lovesick faces circulating online.

Who cared if the whole world knew he was obsessed with his girlfriend?

Standing in the wings of a crowded venue, watching Jane step into the spotlight where she belonged, Ilya knew the truth. He had the best seat in the house. For two years straight, he had watched her hard work pay off, as she captivated the world.

To be right beside her, close enough to see the genuine, brilliant glow in her eyes every time she stepped onto a stage—that was a privilege Ilya Rozanov would never, ever take for granted.

Chapter 10: Dandelions

Filming two major projects at the same time in two different cities was a level of exhaustion Jane hadn't fully prepared for, but as she sat in a corner booth at Straw+Berry, sipping a Blue Moon Over Brooklyn smoothie, she couldn't bring herself to complain.

After a whirlwind summer launching Season 2 of The Lion’s Den and a blissful two weeks of pure, uninterrupted rest with Ilya in Ottawa, life had accelerated to warp speed.

Now, she was splitting her time between shooting Season 3 in Boston and filming McCain’s brutal, contortionist ballet horror film in New York. On top of that, the NHL season was in full swing. The Boston Bears were dominating at the top of the standings, but the New York Admirals were hot on their heels, practically breathing down their necks.

Which brought her directly to the towering man sitting across from her.

Scott Hunter took a long pull from his blue smoothie, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Ilya's going to lose his mind when he sees the tag," Scott said casually, tapping his phone against the table. He had just uploaded a selfie of the two of them sitting in the brightly lit shop, captioning it: “Taking care of Boston’s favorite girl in NYC.”

Jane rolled her eyes, though a soft laugh escaped her. "You two are utterly ridiculous. He’s going to chirp you for sixty straight minutes during your next game, you know that right?"

"Let him," Scott grinned, looking like a giant golden retriever who had just stolen a shoe. "The Admirals are two points behind Boston this week. I need every psychological edge I can get on your boyfriend."

"He's going to call me in ten minutes demanding to know why you're taking up my very limited free time," she warned, though her tone was warm.

Jane had always held a deep respect for Scott after he’d stepped in during her panic attack all those years ago. But because her work had been centered in Montreal and Boston, they’d never had the chance to become truly close—until now. With her filming in New York every few weeks, grabbing lunch or a smoothie with Scott had become a comforting ritual.

He was steady, kind, and genuinely funny. And, more importantly, he was family now.

Jane glanced over Scott’s shoulder toward the sleek glass counter of Straw+Berry, where a ridiculously cute bartender was currently wiping down a blender.

Kip.

Jane leaned her forearms on the table, lowering her voice into a sharp, teasing whisper. "So... are you actually going to ask him to stay over tonight, or are you just going to keep buying twelve-dollar smoothies every time you miss him?"

Scott’s confident, hockey-captain composure instantly shattered. A deep, telltale flush crept up his neck, dusting his cheekbones red. He took a hasty drink of his smoothie to avoid looking at her.

"Jane," he muttered, keeping his voice strictly down. "Quiet."

"I'm just saying," she teased gently, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "The man looks at you like you hung the moon. You don't have to keep pretending you're just really passionate about organic cold-pressed juice."

"We are taking it slow," Scott insisted defensively, though a fond, soft smile tugged at his lips despite his best efforts.

Jane smiled warmly back at him.

She had discovered their secret by complete accident three weeks ago. After a brutal fourteen-hour day on the horror film set—covered in fake blood, bruised from pointe shoe work, and desperately missing Ilya—she hadn't wanted to sit alone in an empty hotel room. She had used the spare key Scott gave her to crash on his sofa, only to walk right into his kitchen and find Scott and Kip sharing an intimate late-night meal in their socks.

The initial panic on Scott’s face had broken her heart, but the moment Jane realized what was happening, she had immediately enveloped both of them in a fierce hug, promising on her life that his secret was entirely safe with her.

Since that night, the three of them had formed a fiercely protective circle. Kip was sweet, grounded, and kept Scott sane amidst the pressure of leading an NHL team, and Jane had quickly grown just as fond of him as she was of Scott.

Across the counter, Kip caught Jane’s eye and offered a quick, shy wave. Jane waved back enthusiastically before turning back to Scott, who was still glaring playfully at her.

"I'm happy for you, Scott. Truly," Jane said softly, reaching across the table to pat his hand. "Even if you use me as clickbait to drive my boyfriend crazy."

"Hey," Scott chuckled, relaxing back into his seat and picking up his phone as it began to buzz on the wooden surface. He glanced at the caller ID and laughed out loud. "Speaking of the Russian... he's calling."

"Tell him I said hi," Jane called out, as she stood up, taking her smoothie with her.

She was still laughing as she pushed open the glass door of Straw+Berry, stepping out into the cool air outside. Even through the tiny speaker of Scott's phone held a few inches away, she could clearly hear Ilya cursing fluently in heavy, rapid-fire Russian before switching to English to bark, "Stop trying to steal my girlfriend, Hunter! I know where you live!"

Scott’s booming laugh echoed behind her as the door swung shut.

She caught a cab on the corner, settling into the backseat as the yellow taxi wove through the afternoon New York traffic toward a historic theater downtown where they were shooting the next sequence for McCain’s film.

By the time she arrived, the crew was already buzzing like a beehive. Jane headed straight to the wardrobe trailer to change into her distressed ballet attire before settling into the hair and makeup chair. As the artists began gluing subtle prosthetic bruises onto her collarbones and styling her hair into a precise, sleek bun, Jane pulled out her phone and set up a video call.

The screens flashed to life, revealing Rose and Miles sitting in a trailer in Montreal, wrapping up the latest installment of the X-Squad franchise.

"I am entirely blue," Rose groaned instantly, leaning close to her camera to show off the intricate blue body paint staining her neck and ears. "They told me it was water-soluble. It is not water-soluble, Jane. I look like an avatar."

Miles popped into the frame behind her, holding a cup of iced coffee and grinning. "Ignore her. She loves it. More importantly, Jane, have you talked to Sveta today? Because Rose has been checking her phone every four minutes."

"I have not!" Rose protested, her face flushing purple under the blue paint as she swung her elbow at Miles.

Jane smiled into her mirror, amused as the two bickered.

The budding romance between Svetlana and Rose had taken Jane completely by surprise at first. She hadn't known Sveta was bisexual, but watching the two of them connect over the summer had made everything click. Looking back, it made absolute sense why her Russian trio—Ilya, Sveta, and Sasha—had bonded so fiercely when they were younger. They had been three queer kids navigating a dangerous world and keeping each other's secrets safe.

Having each other to lean on while growing up in Russia had been their lifeline.

"Seriously though," Miles said, leaning over Rose’s shoulder with a slightly more serious expression. "How is Sveta doing with the back-and-forth travel?"

Jane caught Miles’ eye in the camera, her tone dropping slightly so the hair stylists around her wouldn't overhear. "She's good, but Miles... just remember to be really careful about who you talk to about them, especially on set. Sveta still travels back to Moscow occasionally. If anyone found out over there, she would be in serious danger."

Miles’ playful expression instantly sobered, and he nodded firmly. "Understood. My lips are sealed."

Out of the three of them, Svetlana and Sasha technically had it the "easiest"—though "easy" was a heavy, complicated word. If either of them were ever outed, they had escape routes; Svetlana held an American passport through her mother, and Sasha carried a French one. But safety came at a devastating cost: being outed meant living in permanent exile, cut off from their home forever.

And as for Ilya...

Jane felt a familiar, protective ache in her chest just thinking about him. Dating Jane publicly provided him with the ultimate heteronormative shield, burying any past rumors under a mountain of glossy magazine covers and lovesick red-carpet photos. But Ilya only held a Russian passport. If his truth ever leaked in Moscow, the consequences wouldn't just mean exile—they would be catastrophic for the blond.

"Jane, we're ready for you on stage!" the assistant director called out, knocking softly on the door.

Jane nodded, putting the heavy thoughts aside for now. She offered Rose and Miles a warm, parting smile. "I have to go get haunted by some pointe shoes," Jane said lightheartedly. "Miles, keep her from turning permanent blue. Rose, text Sveta. She's waiting for your message anyway."

Rose grinned behind her blue makeup as Miles laughed, and Jane hung up, stepping out of the makeup chair to make her way across the set. She found McCain waiting in the center of the dimly lit stage, the historic theater wrapping them in heavy shadows as he motioned her over.

"This is a silent sequence, Jane," McCain said, his voice dropping into an intense register. "Stripped of dialogue, grunts, or sound effects from you. I need you to convey the precise moment the slippers take control purely through your body. The audience has to see your soul fighting your muscles."

Jane took a deep, grounding breath to center herself.

While she had kept up with her ballet conditioning after transitioning to acting, she had doubled down on her training over the last few months for this role. She had even tasked her mother with coaching her through brutal, late-night video calls—and God, she had not missed having Yuna Sato as a ballet instructor.

Her mom was relentless, exacting, and utterly uncompromising. But Jane was fiercely competitive and an unapologetic perfectionist. If she was going to star in a McCain horror film, she was going to give it everything she had.

And give it her all she did.

The playback monitor began to hum as the set quieted to absolute silence, as the haunting, distorted notes of a music box echoed through the empty theater speakers. Jane stood under the single harsh spotlight, poised in a classical fifth position.

Then, the dance began.

It started subtly. Her arms rose smoothly into a graceful en haut, her lines fluid and breathtakingly elegant. But as she completed her first pirouette, her body suddenly twitched. Her ankle snapped sideways at an impossible angle, forcing a sharp, mechanical pivot that violated every rule of traditional technique.

Her face remained completely serene—a mask of classical composure—even as her torso violently recoiled. She dropped into a deep, agonizing backbend, her spine cracking softly in the stillness as her ribs appeared to contort beneath her pale skin.

She rose onto full en pointe, but instead of the effortless, floating air of a prima ballerina, her movements became terrifyingly puppet-like. She moved across the wooden stage in rapid, unnatural bursts, her limbs trembling violently as if invisible wires were yanking her joints out of alignment. Her left arm extended into an exquisite arabesque, while her right shoulder popped upward in a sickening, unnatural spasm, twisting her collarbone unnaturally against her throat.

Every line of classical grace was immediately corrupted by a contortionist night-terror. Her muscles strained, veins standing out along her neck, yet her eyes remained wide, glassy, and fixed straight ahead—reflecting the horrifying reality of a dancer watching her own body betray her, completely trapped inside her own skin.

She executed a final, blindingly fast series of fouettés, her body spinning with unnatural speed, before locking into a rigid, trembling finale. She collapsed forward onto her knees, her back arching back until the top of her head nearly touched her ankles, her arms pinned unnaturally behind her like broken wings.

She held the position, frozen, barely daring to breathe.

"Cut!" McCain’s voice boomed through the silent hall.

Jane immediately released the intense posture, sitting up and exhaling a long, shuddering breath as she brushed a stray strand of hair from her sweating forehead.

McCain was beaming, a wide, thrilled smile breaking across his face as he began to clap. Jane looked around the rest of the set, catching the expressions of the crew staff gathered around the director's monitors.

There wasn't a single person moving. Half the camera operators looked thoroughly stunned, while a couple of the junior production assistants were staring at her with a mixture of absolute awe and genuine horror.

Jane wiped a sheen of sweat from her neck, feeling the dull ache in her muscles, and smiled widely to herself.

She had nailed it.

It was with immense pride and a thoroughly brilliant mood that Jane boarded her late-night flight back to Boston.

The moment she stepped out into the crisp midnight air at Logan Airport, she spotted him. Ilya was standing near his car, looking imposing and ridiculous in a dark leather jacket, his eyes lighting up the second he locked onto her.

Jane didn't even hesitate. She practically threw herself into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist as he caught her effortlessly. She pressed her lips to his in a deep, breathless kiss, completely unbothered by the quiet click-click-click of paparazzi lenses flashing nearby. Let them take the photos. Let social media go crazy. She was far too happy to care.

Ilya chuckled low in his throat, carrying her duffel bag with one hand while tossing it into the trunk, opening the passenger door for her like a proper gentleman before sliding into the driver's seat.

As they drove, Jane had the time of her life recounting her day. Her hands moved animatedly as she described working with McCain, raving about his genius in using pure body language as the primary dialect of the film. It was a terrifying, grueling, and utterly thrilling new experience for her.

She was so completely invested in her story that she didn't even notice the familiar turns the car was taking—until Ilya pulled up to the curb.

Jane blinked, looking out the window. "Wait... this isn't the penthouse."

It was the cozy Russian restaurant where they had gone on their very first date.

Anastasia met them at the door, her face softening into a warm, maternal smile as she greeted them fluently in Russian. But after escorting them inside, she quietly retreated, leaving them entirely alone.

And entirely alone they were.

Jane glanced around the empty room, the soft glow of candlelight reflecting off the polished wooden tables. "Ilya... why is there no one here?"

"I booked the whole restaurant for the night," Ilya answered simply, pulling out her chair for her.

Jane smiled, sitting down as he took the seat opposite her. "You rented out an entire restaurant?"

Ilya leaned his forearms on the table, looking at her with an unusually serious intensity in his beautiful blue eyes. "Lately, too many pesky flies are hovering around you," he began. "Like they do not know you are taken."

Jane burst into a soft laugh. "Ilya, is this about Scott? Because I promise you, you have absolutely nothing to worry about—"

Ilya shook his head gently, cutting her off.

"No," he said softly, his tone shifting into something so profoundly tender it made Jane's breath catch in her throat. "This is not about Hunter. This is because I love you, Jane. And I want everyone in the world to know it, once and for all."

Before Jane could process the words, Ilya pushed back his chair and stood up. He walked around the table, dropping gracefully onto one knee beside her, and from his jacket pocket, he pulled out a classic red Cartier box.

Jane gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Ilya flipped the box open, revealing a breathtaking ring: a deep, fiery red ruby set in a warm golden band, surrounded by a delicate halo of brilliant diamonds.

"Jane Hollander," Ilya said, his voice trembling just a fraction with emotion as he looked up at her. "Will you make me the luckiest man alive, and be my wife?"

"Yes!" Jane shouted, tears springing to her dark eyes as a sob of pure joy escaped her. "Yes, of course, yes!"

Ilya let out a shaky, triumphant sigh, taking her right hand—following the traditional Russian custom—and sliding the stunning ruby ring onto her ring finger. The second it was in place, Jane pulled him up by his lapels and kissed him passionately, burying her hands in his thick blond hair as he wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her slightly off her chair.

A sudden burst of loud cheers and applause echoed from the kitchen doors.

Jane turned around, laughing through her tears as she saw Anastasia standing near the doorway, holding up her phone with a proud, beaming smile as she recorded the entire proposal. Behind her, the rest of the kitchen staff were clapping, cheering, and wiping away happy tears.

Their dinner that night was a perfect, nostalgic mirror of their very first date: steaming, savory pelmeni for Ilya and rich, vibrant borscht for Jane.

Sitting across from her fiancé in the quiet, romantic glow of the empty restaurant, admiring the deep red glow of the ruby on her finger, Jane knew she had never been happier in her entire life.

That peaceful, private bubble, however, was short-lived.

The internet did not simply process Jane’s engagement; it suffered a complete, collective meltdown.

It started with a pap shot outside the Brooklyn theater—Jane, wearing an oversized sweater, casually holding a coffee cup with a deep, fiery ruby the size of a small pebble flashing on her right hand. By the time she showed up at the rink for the Bears' next home game, sitting in the wives' box with the ring practically blinding the jumbotron cameras, social media had declared it a national event.

The reactions came in waves, each more chaotic than the last.

Her parents had been over the moon. Yuna had declared him her "absolute favorite son" during a FaceTime call, which had caused the massive, terrifying hockey captain to promptly bury his face into Jane’s shoulder and shed genuine tears of emotional overload. Jane had found it utterly endearing, even if she secretly wished he’d learn not to hide his pretty blue eyes whenever he cried.

Calls flooded in from everywhere. Her friends in Montreal, LA, and New York phoned to shower her with love—and to chirp Ilya mercilessly for scoring so insanely out of his league.

Sasha and Svetlana, acting in their official capacity as Ilya’s childhood friends, took Jane out for a solemn, highly dramatic "shovel talk" over dinner, warning her that if she ever broke his heart, they would make her life miserable (a threat that dissolved into laughter within two minutes). The Bears squad followed suit the next night, formally "protecting" their captain before buying Jane enough champagne to sink a ship.

But nothing—nothing—prepared Jane for the absolute war zone that became the Boston Bears WAGs group chat.

📱 BEARS WIVES & GIRLFRIENDS (AND SASH)

Maya:

@Jane HOLY SHIT

I JUST SAW THE TMZ PICTURES

IS THAT A RUBY OR A GEODE ON YOUR FINGER???? 😭😭😭

 

Chloe:

JANE HOLLANDER PROPOSED TO????

I AM SCREAMING IN MY CAR RIGHT NOW

IT IS LITERALLY THE SIZE OF A RING POP

 

Sasha:

Please. As the official Social Media Manager and Ilya’s soulmate, I insist you refer to it by its proper title: The Romanov Empire’s Lost Treasure.

Also @Jane congratulations my sister, I am weeping into a croissant.

 

Elena:

CONGRATULATIONS HONEY!!! ❤️❤️❤️🎉🎉🎉

I am so, so happy for you two! You deserve all the happiness in the world!

 

Maya:

Okay but can we talk about the logistics here

@Jane how are your wrists holding up under that weight? Do you need a brace?

 

Jane:

Hahaha thank you everyone!! ❤️❤️

And @Maya I’m doing forearm workouts just to keep my hand elevated, it’s a serious physical hazard.

 

Chloe:

I knew something was up when Ilya was smiling like an idiot during morning skate.

Ryan said Ilya looked like he’d just won the lottery, the Stanley Cup, and a free lifetime supply of steak all at once.

 

Sasha:

He did. It’s disgusting. He has been humming in Russian all morning. I had to tell him to stop because it’s scaring the rookies.

 

Maya:

Listen to me @Jane.

You have achieved the ultimate status.

You tamed the most terrifying, grumpy, media-hating Russian in the entire NHL and turned him into a golden retriever in Dior.

By power of the Bears WAG Council, I hereby officially relinquish my crown.

ALL HAIL QUEEN WAG. 👑👑👑

 

Chloe:

ALL HAIL QUEEN JANE! 🧎‍♀️✨

Long may she reign!

 

Elena:

👑👑👑 The throne is officially yours, Jane!

 

Jane:

Guys please 😂😂😂 I am not Queen WAG!

 

Sasha:

Deny it all you want, Your Majesty, but I am already designing the merch.

"QUEEN JANE: SHE TAMED THE BEAR"

It will sell out in minutes.

 

Maya:

In all seriousness though, Jane…

When you first showed up, we all knew how hard you worked and how much pressure you were under with your career. We were a little worried about how two giant, crazy schedules would mesh.

But seeing the way Ilya looks at you—and honestly, seeing how happy and grounded you look whenever you’re around him—it’s just the sweetest thing.

 

Chloe:

Stop I’m actually crying 🥺

You guys really are the real deal. Welcome to the married/engaged club, Jane. We’re so lucky to have you in our corner.

 

Elena:

You brought out the absolute best in him, Jane. And he worships the ground you walk on. We couldn't ask for a better Captain’s leading lady. ❤️

 

Jane:

Oh gosh, now you guys are making ME cry in my trailer 😭❤️

Thank you so much, seriously. You have no idea how much it meant to me to be welcomed into this family so easily. I love you guys!

 

Maya:

We love you too, Queen! 🥂

Now go tell your giant fiancé that he’s buying drinks for the entire box at the next home game to celebrate!

 

Sasha:

I am already charging it to his corporate card. 😎

 

Jane stared down at her phone, a wet, emotional laugh escaping her as she wiped a stray tear from her cheek.

She looked at her right hand, watching the brilliant red ruby catch the light of her trailer. Between her crazy career, her friends, her loving family, and a team of wives and girlfriends who treated her like royalty, she felt completely enveloped in warmth.

And at the center of it all was a big, soft-hearted Russian who loved her more than life itself.

She couldn't wait to marry him.

By the time September came around, the media did not relent.

She was on the red carpet for the Emmys, and people kept asking her to show off her engagement ring.

"Jane! Over here!"

"Jane, give us the ruby! Let us see the ring!"

"Jane, turn to your right! Flash the rock!"

It was a total circus. Photographers were screaming at her from three tiers of risers, blinding white strobes going off so fast that spots danced across her vision. Microphones were being shoved past security ropes, every third interviewer practically begging her to tilt her wrist, lift her hand, or hold up her right finger so their cameras could zoom in on the deep, fiery stone resting against her skin.

Part of her wanted to laugh, but another part felt it was a genuine pity—because almost no one was asking about the actual masterpiece she was wearing.

With every pose, every slight shift of her hips, Jane could feel the heavy, magnificent weight of custom Christian Dior moving against her legs. It was a painstaking recreation of the iconic 1949 "Junon" haute couture gown, originally named after Juno, the Roman Queen of the Gods. The bodice was a sleek, strapless cream-colored bustier that held her with rigid, perfect precision, contrasting dramatically against the swooping, voluminous skirt beneath it.

As she pivoted for the camera pit, she could feel the layered, petal-like scalloped tulle tiers rustling softly around her knees, mimicking the fan of peacock feathers. Each individual petal was meticulously detailed with thousands of hand-stitched ombré sequins and micro-beadwork. They faded seamlessly from pale, frosty silver to shimmering, deep blue-green edges, liquid and radiant, catching every single flash of light with the slightest sway of her body.

"Jane! Look down the lens! Show us the hand!"

Beside her, Ilya was a towering pillar of calm in the middle of the noise. Dressed in a dark, tailored Dior tuxedo that made his broad shoulders look even more ridiculous, he held his position just off the main press line. Every time a photographer tried to get too close or shouted too aggressively, Ilya just shifted his weight, his Cartier watch glinting under the lights, casting a flat, protective look that made the journalists instantly back up a step.

"Come," Ilya murmured, subtly blocking three frantic paparazzi with his frame. He rested a broad, warm hand at the small of her back, guiding her away from the barrage and toward the cool air of the theater lobby.

Once they finally navigated the chaotic bottleneck and settled into their seats inside the auditorium, the deafening roar of the carpet faded into an expectant hush. Ilya leaned down close to her ear, the faint scent of his cologne enveloping Jane in an overwhelming, intoxicating haze. His warm breath brushed against her skin as he whispered in low, smooth Russian:

"This time, you win. For sure."

Jane smiled, resting her hand over his knee, feeling the steady strength of his support anchoring her through the mounting tension as the ceremony began.

Two hours later, the moment finally arrived.

The presenter stepped up to the podium, the giant screens above the stage flashing the faces of the nominees for Outstanding Lead Actress in a Drama Series.

Jane held her breath. Beside her, Ilya’s hand tightened around hers, his grip solid and unwavering.

"And the Emmy goes to..."

The presenter tore open the golden envelope, a wide smile breaking across her face.

"Jane Hollander, for The Lion's Den!"

The auditorium erupted into absolute bedlam.

Before the sound of her own name could fully register, Ilya was already on his feet. He pulled her up into his arms, lifting her off her feet into a fierce, breathless hug, pressing a hard kiss to her temple before reluctantly letting her go so she could step into the aisle.

As Jane glided up the stairs to the stage, the layered peacock petals of her Dior gown fanning out behind her and shimmering like liquid light under the spotlights, she glanced back over her shoulder one last time. Ilya was standing by their row, clapping furiously, his bright blue eyes shining with pure, unadulterated pride.

She stepped up to the microphone, her heart pounding against the structure of her bodice as she accepted the gold statuette. She took a deep, grounding breath, looking out at the sea of faces in the theater.

"Thank you," Jane began, her voice rich with emotion. "Thank you so much to the Television Academy for this incredible honor. To our brilliant creator, our tireless crew, and the most extraordinary cast in the world—this belongs to all of us. Thank you for making The Lion's Den a home where we can push boundaries every single day."

She paused, clutching the statuette tight against her hip, her gaze sweeping over the audience until it locked onto the tall, blond man.

"To my parents, thank you for teaching me how to work hard, how to fight for what I love, and how to never settle," she continued, a warm smile breaking across her face. "And to Ilya..."

The camera immediately cut to Ilya on the big screen, who blinked, looking genuinely surprised as his face flushed a light pink.

"Thank you for being my anchor, my home, and my favorite person in the entire world," Jane said softly, her eyes locked onto his. "You told me tonight that I was going to win. But the truth is, I already won the moment I found you. I love you."

Ilya let out a shaky breath on screen, ducking his head slightly as he wiped at the corner of his eye, refusing to fully hide his face this time.

The crowd roared with applause, and as Jane held her Emmy high, bathed in the blinding stage lights, she knew there was nowhere else in the world she would rather be.

Chapter 11: Ocean Eyes

Chapter Notes

Hello, everyone!

Well... we've finally reached the end. This is the last chapter of the story. The only one remaining is a social media post.

Thank you to every single person who gave this little experiment a chance. A one-sided genderbend AU wasn't something I expected to be so well received, but you all embraced it from the very beginning, and I honestly couldn't be more grateful.

No matter what universe or "what if" I decide to throw these characters into, you're always here supporting me, and that means more than I can put into words. Thank you for every comment, every kudos, every bookmark, and every bit of enthusiasm you've shared along the way.

I hope you'll enjoy the next adventure just as much!

I'll also be posting a new story later today. It's the one I mentioned before—the AU featuring professional baseball player Shane Hollander and professional hockey player Ilya Rozanov. It should be up in a few hours (or at some point later today), so keep an eye on the series page for the update.

I can't wait to share it with you all, and I hope to see you there. ❤️

The dizzying blur of award season had barely wrapped up—punctuated by her second major win of the year in January, taking home the Golden Globe for Best Actress in a Drama Series—and Jane was right back where she belonged: covered in flour, standing in front of rolling cameras.

They were currently on the kitchen set shooting Season 3 of The Lion’s Den.

The overarching thematic structure of the show was one of Jane’s favorite things about it. Season 1 had been built around Pride, Season 2 had gorged itself on Gluttony, and now, Season 3 was steeped entirely in pure, unadulterated Rage. (Greed, Sloth, Envy, and Lust were slated for seasons four through seven).

With Amazon officially greenlighting all seven planned seasons following the show's meteoric ratings, Jane knew that bar any catastrophic collapse, The Lion’s Den will be giving her a job for the next four years.

She loved the security and the character. But right now, she had to focus on not burning the set down.

In front of her, a heavy copper pan rested over a roaring gas flame. She was preparing Cherries Jubilee—a deceptively violent dessert. Deep, blood-red cherries were bubbling furiously in a thick, dark sauce, releasing a sharp, sweet steam into the air. The crucial, terrifying step of the recipe was the flambé: pouring high-proof Kirsch cherry brandy into the pan and igniting the alcohol to create an intense, short-lived flare-up of blue and orange fire.

It was a dangerous maneuver, but Jane had treated the process like ballet. Step by step, angle by angle, completely rehearsed.

Until the secondary actor playing her junior line cook panicked.

Out of nowhere, completely breaking the established timing, the actor reached across the station and recklessly dumped a quarter-bottle of Kirsch directly into the scalding pan before the sauce was reduced.

WHOOSH.

A massive, aggressive wall of fire erupted from the stove, shooting five feet into the air and singeing the air between them with blinding heat.

Jane’s instincts kicked in instantly, forged through painstaking preparation. Long before ever stepping into this kitchen, she had demanded rigorous safety training for worst-case scenarios.

Without a second of hesitation, she grabbed the heavy stainless steel lid from the prep counter, slammed it firmly over the flaming copper pan to starve it of oxygen, and cut the gas line switch beneath the counter with a hard slap of her palm.

The fire died instantly, leaving behind a thick cloud of acrid smoke and an oppressive, shock-filled quiet.

Jane stood frozen for a fraction of a second, her hands gripping the edge of the stainless steel counter, her heart hammering against her ribs. Then, the shock evaporated, replaced by a scalding, white-hot fury that belonged entirely to Jane, not her character.

She whipped around to face the actor, her dark eyes blazing.

"Are you completely out of your mind?!" Jane screamed, her voice echoing off the studio rafters. "Vous auriez pu nous brûler tous les deux! Ты вообще соображаешь, что делаешь?! 你は本当に馬鹿なの?!"

She didn't stop. She launched into a relentless, terrifying tirade, her tone sharp enough to cut glass, lecturing him on kitchen safety, spatial awareness, and the sheer, unpardonable stupidity of ignoring safety protocols on a live set. In her absolute rage, her brain didn't bother picking a language—she shredded him in a chaotic, seamless blend of English, French, Russian, and Japanese, her hands gesturing sharply in the air as her multilingual background and her fury collided all at once.

By the time she finally stopped, chest heaving, panting for air as she wiped a stray streak of soot from her cheek, the entire soundstage was dead silent.

Not a single crew member breathed. The secondary actor was standing frozen against the stainless steel prep fridge, pale as a sheet, trembling with his eyes wide and brimming with genuine, terrified tears.

Jane took one long, shaky breath, suddenly realizing what she had just done. She opened her mouth to apologize to the crew—

"Cut!"

The director’s voice boomed over the PA system. He stepped out from behind the monitors, staring at Jane with a look of absolute, awe-struck reverence.

"Jane," the director said deeply satisfied. "That multilingual rage? The lid slam? That is staying in the cut. It was the most brilliant, authentic moment of television we have shot all year."

Then, his face hardened. He turned his head slowly toward the trembling secondary actor, his tone dropping into an uncharacteristically cold, serious register.

"As for you," the director said flatly, pointing a finger toward the studio exit. "Pack your bags. You're fired. Get off my set before you actually kill someone."

Jane leaned heavily against the counter as security quietly escorted the tearful actor away, her adrenaline slowly ebbing. She looked down at her hands, still slightly shaking, and let out a long, exhausted laugh.

Season 3 was about Rage, alright. And she hadn't even needed a script.

Even after the on-set nurse cleared her with a quick checkup and confirmed she hadn't suffered any burns, the director shut down filming for the rest of the day. No one wanted to push their luck after a near-disaster, and the crew was still visibly shaken.

Jane barely remembered changing out of her soot-stained chef's whites or getting into her car. She felt completely hollowed out—a numb, zombified shell running on pure shock and ebbing adrenaline. Her hands gripped the steering wheel on instinct, guiding the car through Boston until she pulled up to the Bears' training facility.

She just needed Ilya. She needed his smell, his warmth, and the grounding, immovable weight of his presence.

The security guards at the rink entrance recognized her instantly, offering warm, respectful smiles as they buzzed her through. Jane didn't even know if she managed to smile back. She just kept walking down the familiar, carpeted hallways, her boots echoing softly against the concrete floor.

She instinctively navigated toward the staff wing, pushing open the door to Svetlana's office.

Inside, Svetlana and Sasha were standing near the desk, laughing over an iPad as they finalized a social media post. But the moment the door swung open, the laughter died instantly.

Gosh, the look on Jane's face must have been terrifying, because both of them went dead pale in a fraction of a second.

"Jane?" Sasha choked out, his iPad dropping onto the desk with a clatter. His eyes scanned her trembling hands and pale skin, taking in the faint shadow of soot near her hairline. He didn't ask a single question. "I'm getting Ilya," he blurted out, sprinting out of the office so fast he almost clipped the doorframe.

Svetlana was at her side in two quick strides. She didn't press for details or demand an explanation; she just wrapped her arms tightly around Jane’s shoulders, pulling her flush against her chest.

The moment Svetlana’s warm arms closed around her, the dam inside Jane completely broke.

A ragged sob tore from her throat, and Jane buried her face into the crook of Svetlana's neck, clinging to her like a lifeline as the delayed horror of the fire, the screaming, and the adrenaline-fueled rage finally washed over her in hot, unstoppable tears.

She lost all track of time weeping against Svetlana’s neck, the outside world completely blurring away. She only snapped back when the office door flew open with a heavy, slamming thud that rattled the glass panels.

Ilya stood on the threshold, chest heaving, still wearing his damp base layer and his blond hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. The expression on his face was terrifying—a dark, murderous fury so absolute it made his jaw set like iron and his eyes turn to icy glass. It was a look that would have sent an entire opposing NHL team scrambling back over the boards in genuine fear.

But Jane could never, ever feel afraid of him.

The moment she looked into those vivid, ocean-blue eyes—the very eyes she had fallen so deeply in love with—the knot of residual panic in her chest completely unraveled.

Ilya’s terrifying expression crumbled the second his gaze landed on her pale, tear-streaked face. The dangerous edge vanished, replaced instantly by raw, agonizing concern. He didn't say a word to Sasha or Svetlana. He crossed the room in two massive strides, dropping his hockey gloves onto the floor, and swept Jane out of Svetlana’s arms and straight into his own.

He lifted her easily, burying his face in her hair and letting out a long, ragged exhale as his large hands cupped the back of her head, holding her tight against his chest. "I'm here," he murmured in low, frantic Russian, his voice trembling against her temple. "I have you. I have you."

Practice was canceled on the spot. Ilya didn't care about the remaining drills or the coach’s schedule, he changed in record time, tossed his duffel into the trunk, and guided Jane out to the car with one arm firmly wrapped around her waist.

The drive back to the penthouse was quiet, Ilya keeping one hand anchored securely over hers on the center console the entire way.

Once home, he ushered her straight into the master bedroom. He helped her out of her heavy clothes, pulling his oversized, worn-in Boston Bears cardigan over her head. The soft wool engulfed her frame, smelling richly of his cologne, fresh air, and cedarwood—a piece of his wardrobe she had long since claimed as her own.

He pulled the heavy duvet over the both of them, pulling her flush against his chest so her head rested right over the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart. Wrapped tightly in his arms, Jane felt the icy, lingering shock of the soundstage finally begin to fade away.

She rested her cheek against the center of his chest, listening to the heavy, steady thud of his heart beneath her ear as her fingers tangled into the soft wool at his waist.

"We were doing the Cherries Jubilee," Jane began, her voice barely a whisper, thin and raspy from crying. "It’s a flambé, Ilya. I’ve practiced it a hundred times. I knew the timing down to the second. But... the other actor, he panicked. He grabbed the Kirsch and just poured it in before the sauce reduced. He didn't wait for the cue."

Ilya’s body went completely rigid beneath her. His arms tightened around her waist with a sudden, fiercely protective pressure, pulling her so flush against him that not a single inch of space remained between them.

“Blyat,” he growled low in his throat, a dark, dangerous Russian rumble that vibrated straight through his chest into hers. "Fucking idiots!"

"It was just this wall of fire, right in front of my face," Jane murmured, her breath catching as the memory flashed vividly behind her eyelids—the blinding flash of orange, and the searing blast of heat against her cheeks. "The heat was so intense, Ilya. For a second, I thought the set was going to catch. My hands just took over. I grabbed the lid, smothered the flame, and slammed the gas valve off..."

At the mention of the flames, Ilya let out a harsh, shuddering breath. He buried his face deep into the crook of her neck, inhaling the sweet, familiar scent of her hair, as if convincing himself over and over that she was whole, unburnt, and safe in his bed. His large, calloused hand rested against her spine, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate, soothing circles through the heavy wool of the cardigan.

"And then... I just snapped," Jane confessed softly, a faint, weary tremor of humor touching her tone. "I lost my mind, Ilya. I screamed at him. I was so terrified and so furious that I didn't even realize what language I was using. I started in English, switched to French, and then I was screaming at him in Russian and Japanese. I think I used every swear word you’ve ever muttered under your breath during a penalty kill."

Ilya didn't laugh. He just pressed a hard, lingering kiss to the side of her throat, his lips warm against her skin as he breathed out another string of quiet, furious Russian curses against her skin—aimed entirely at the actor who had dared put her in danger, at the production team, at anyone who had allowed a flame near her.

"If I had been there..." Ilya rasped, his voice rough with an edge of pure malice, "I would have broken him in half."

"The director fired him on the spot," Jane whispered, turning her head slightly so her lips brushed his jaw. "And I was just... so tired. I didn't want the nurse, or the producers, or the studio apology. I just wanted you."

Ilya’s grip softened into something impossibly tender. He shifted slightly, shifting his weight so he could press a long, sweet kiss to the crown of her head, his cheek resting against her hair.

"I am here, moya krasavitsa," he murmured softly, his Russian accent thick and velvet-soft in the quiet bedroom. "I am always here. Nobody will touch or hurt you."

Jane looked up into those deep, ocean-blue eyes and believed every single word.

She loved those eyes so much it made her chest ache. Looking at him in the soft light of their bedroom, a quiet, tender thought washed over her—a secret wish she had been holding onto for a while now. She hoped that when they eventually had children, they would inherit his eyes. Those brilliant, expressive blue eyes that could terrify an entire hockey arena one minute and look at her with absolute, unfiltered devotion the next.

And she knew, with complete certainty, that Ilya was quietly praying for their future kids to inherit Jane’s freckles.

Ilya continued holding her close, anchoring her to the bed, pressing soft, lingering kisses to her forehead, her temples, and her knuckles whenever her breath hitched. Laying safely in the deep, quiet warmth of their home, locked in the immovable embrace of the man who loved her more than life itself, Jane felt her eyelids grow heavy. The lingering smell of smoke was entirely replaced by his cologne, his warmth, and the rhythm of his breathing. She let her eyes drift shut, completely enveloped by a deep, unwavering sense of peace.

The rest of the production went smoothly. The studio reinforced every safety protocol on set, and Jane threw herself into the remainder of Season 3, channeling every drop of leftover intensity into her performance. By late spring, principal photography wrapped on The Lion's Den, right around the same time she finished her final dubbing and pickup shots for McCain’s contortionist horror film.

Meanwhile, the Boston Bears had plowed their way through the postseason once again, setting up a brutal, bloody matchup for the Eastern Conference Finals: The Boston Bears versus the New York Admirals.

Game Seven came down to the wire in Boston.

Jane stood in the front row of the VIP box, flanked by Svetlana on her left and Sasha on her right, her knuckles white as she gripped the glass partition. The arena was an absolute pressure cooker, thousands of fans screaming themselves hoarse, the noise vibrating straight through the floorboards as the clock ticked down in overtime.

Down on the ice, Ilya was playing like a man possessed, leaving everything he had on the surface. But the Admirals were relentless.

With less than two minutes remaining in sudden-death overtime, Scott Hunter caught a sharp rebound off the boards, found a sliver of open ice, and fired a heavy, blinding wrist shot straight past the Koslov into the top right corner of the net.

The red light flashed. The horn blared—not for a Boston victory, but signifying the end of their season.

A collective, soul-crushing gasp echoed through the arena, followed by a sudden, devastating silence. The New York Admirals erupted off their bench, flooding the ice to mob Scott in celebration.

Jane felt her heart sink right into her stomach. Beside her, Sasha let out a soft, heartbroken groan, burying his face in his hands, while Svetlana stood frozen, her eyes fixed on the ice below. What hurt the most wasn't just the loss—it was that it happened right here, on home ice, in front of their own fans, ending their bid for a fourth consecutive Stanley Cup.

Her eyes searched the chaotic rink until she found Ilya. He was standing near the faceoff circle, his hands resting on his knees, his broad shoulders rising and falling with heavy, exhausted pants as he watched New York celebrate.

Her heart broke for him. She didn't care about the trophy, the streak, or the headlines tomorrow. All she wanted was to go down to the locker room, pull her captain into her arms, and remind him that no matter what happened on the ice, he was coming home to her.

Ilya was entirely silent after the loss. He retreated into himself, carrying a heavy weight that settled over his shoulders like armor, and Jane gave him the space he needed. But as the post-season dust settled, she gently suggested they take a trip to Ottawa to visit her parents at their lake cabin and watch the Stanley Cup Finals together.

Ilya agreed, but he was visibly tense during the entire flight to Canada. He sat stiffly in his seat, jaw set, as if he were constantly braced for an inevitable, explosive blowup. It was mid-flight, watching his knuckles white-cap against his armrest, that Jane suddenly understood.

This wasn't just about losing the Eastern Conference Final. This was about Grigory Rozanov.

If Ilya's father were still in his right mind, he would have already called Ilya to deliver a scathing, brutal lecture—telling him what a utter disappointment he was for failing to secure the Cup. Grigory wouldn't have cared that Ilya had just led the Bears to three consecutive Stanley Cup championships. In Grigory’s world, coming in second was a cardinal sin, and perfection was the bare minimum.

Knowing this was a deep, complex trauma she couldn't fix with simple words on a plane, Jane didn't push. She simply slid her hand into his, weaving her fingers through his cold ones, and silently prayed that her parents' home would be the sanctuary he so desperately needed.

And her parents had it completely in hand.

The moment Ilya stepped through the heavy wooden door of the Ottawa cabin, Yuna and David didn't offer solemn looks or awkward condolences. Instead, David stepped forward with a wide, proud smile and threw his arms around Ilya in a firm, solid hug, while Yuna immediately wrapped her arms around his waist from the side.

"Congratulations on an incredible season, son," David said warmly, clapping him on his broad back.

Ilya froze completely, looking utterly bewildered as he stood in the warm entryway of the cabin, surrounded by the smell of pine and home cooking.

Jane’s heart shattered into a thousand pieces when Ilya whispered, his rough voice cracking slightly, "But... we lost."

Yuna pulled back just enough to look up into his face, her dark eyes fierce with maternal devotion.

"We don't care about that, Ilya," Yuna told him firmly, stepping up to cup his jaw with her hand. "You played with your whole heart. You gave everything you had on that ice, and it showed in every single shift. Nobody wins forever. You had an extraordinary year, and we are so, so proud of you."

The last layer of Ilya’s defenses simply disintegrated.

He let out a shaky, broken breath and collapsed forward, burying his face directly into Yuna’s shoulder. The massive, formidable NHL captain held onto Jane’s mother and wept silently, releasing years of conditioned guilt, fear, and the ghost of his father's impossible expectations. Yuna just held him tight, rubbing his back, whispering soft comforts into his hair as David placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

When the tears finally stopped, the tension had completely evaporated from Ilya's frame. They moved into the living room as the pre-game coverage for the Finals started humming softly on the TV.

Ilya sank into the plush leather sofa, pulling Jane tightly against his side so she was completely cuddled up against his chest. David walked over from the kitchen, holding out a crystal tumbler filled with high-grade Russian vodka.

Ilya looked up, offering a small, exhausted, but genuinely grateful smile as he accepted the glass. "Spasibo, David," Ilya murmured softly, taking a slow sip of the cold spirit before resting his chin atop Jane’s head.

Jane curled her legs onto the couch, resting her hand over his knee, feeling the deep, relaxed rise and fall of his chest. Surrounded by love, warmth, and a family that demanded nothing from him except his happiness, Ilya had finally come home.

For the rest of the game, Jane could see that Ilya was good. More than good—he was genuinely, completely happy. The heavy shadow that had been hanging over him since the Game Seven loss was gone, replaced by a vivid, bright spark in those ocean-blue eyes she loved so much.

He had even migrated over to Yuna's side of the living room, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her mom as they both aggressively yelled at the TV screen every single time a referee made a terrible call.

Across the room, Jane and her dad sat together on the sofa, exchanging amused, conspiratorial looks as they watched the two self-appointed hockey experts practically vibrate with shared outrage.

"He's never going to financially recover from agreeing with your mother's hockey opinions," David whispered dryly, taking a sip of his drink.

Jane laughed softly, leaning her head on her father's shoulder. "He adores her. He'd agree to anything she says right now."

Down on the screen, the final horn blared across the arena. The New York Admirals had officially won the Stanley Cup for the first time in sixteen years, the ice instantly disappearing beneath a sea of thrown gloves, sticks, and hugging players.

Jane shifted closer to Ilya as he walked back over to the couch, sliding her hand into his. She looked up at his face, her tone dropping into a soft, quiet whisper. "Are you okay?"

Ilya looked down at her, a genuinely relaxed, crooked smile touching his lips. He squeezed her fingers. "I am okay, moya krasavitsa. Honestly? If Hunter lost after beating the Bears, I would have been pissed. Now at least I can say we lost to the champions."

Jane smiled, resting her cheek against his arm—until a sharp gasp from her mother cut through the room.

"Oh, my goodness!" Yuna exclaimed, pointing a finger at the screen. "Look!"

Jane and Ilya both snapped their attention back to the TV.

The broadcast camera was zooming in on the center of the ice, capturing Scott Hunter right in the middle of the chaotic victory celebration. He had pulled a familiar man out of the family crowd, wrapped his arms around his waist, and pulled him into an undeniable, deeply passionate kiss right on the center logo, with the Stanley Cup gleaming just feet away.

Scott was kissing Kip on live national television.

Jane gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as tears of pure, overwhelming joy instantly pricked her eyes. "Oh, Scott..." she breathed out, her heart bursting for her friends. He had finally done it.

He was free.

Beside her, Ilya let out a long, low whistle, leaning back against the couch cushions with his arms crossed over his broad chest. "Damn," Ilya mused, his blue eyes wide with genuine surprise. "My gaydar did not clock Hunter at all. Good for him."

Jane turned to look at him, wiping a happy tear from her cheek. "I am so, so happy for them."

Ilya smirked, a familiar, wicked spark of competitiveness dancing in his eyes as he wrapped an arm around Jane's waist, pulling her flush against his side.

"Well, he can enjoy his fourteen minutes of fame," Ilya declared smoothly, tossing his head back. "Because our wedding is going to completely eclipse the news of the first out NHL player anyway. Everyone will forget about the Admirals the second they see you in a dress."

Jane threw her head back and laughed out loud, the warm, joyful sound echoing through the cozy cabin.

God, she loved her ridiculously competitive, hopelessly devoted Russian fiancé so much—especially when those brilliant ocean-blue eyes were crinkled at the corners, shining with pure, unfiltered happiness.

Chapter 12: Empire

@ilyarozanov81

The wolf-bird has joined my collection.

For my dear Jane. ❤️🇨🇦

[Photo]

A mirror selfie taken inside the private gym at the Boston Bears' training facility.

Ilya stands shirtless in a pair of black training shorts, one hand holding his phone while the other rests casually against his hip. His workout has clearly just ended; loose strands of dark hair cling to his forehead, and a light sheen of sweat catches the overhead lights across his shoulders and chest.

A large roaring bear tattoo covers the left side of his chest, while a newly finished loon tattoo is visible on his right bicep. A squat rack, barbells, and neatly stacked weight plates fill the background.

Comments:

@bostonbears

🐻👀

 

@sportscenter

Hold on...

New tattoo?

 

@tattootok

The bear looks familiar.

 

@bostonfan92

Because it is.

Every player from the 2014 Stanley Cup team got that bear tattoo before the parade.

 

@cuphistory

It's basically the Bears' version of a championship ring.

They all got matching tattoos.

 

@hockeyfan44

Right.

We've known about the bear for years.

I'm trying to figure out what the bird is.

 

@birdwatchingdaily

That's a loon.

 

@internationalfan

A what?

 

@birdwatchingdaily

A common loon.

They're native to Canada.

 

@MapleLeafForever

They're one of Canada's best-known birds.

You literally find one on our one-dollar coin.

 

@internationalfan

...THAT'S why Canadians call it a loonie??

I genuinely never knew that.

 

@CanadianEh

Yep. 😂

The bird is a loon.

The coin became the loonie.

 

@filmlover

Considering the caption literally says, "for my dear Jane," I'm guessing he got a Canadian bird because she's Canadian.

 

@janehollanderdaily

Honestly that's much sweeter than getting somebody's initials tattooed.

 

@sportscenter

Okay, I understand the loon.

What I do not understand is why he called it a wolf-bird.

 

@campinglife

Because he's heard one.

 

@sportscenter

...I've clearly never heard one.

 

@northwoods_canada

Go listen to a loon call.

You'll understand immediately.

 

@birdwatchingdaily

The first time you hear one echo across a lake at night, it genuinely sounds like there are wolves somewhere in the distance.

 

@CanadianCamper

My cousins came to Canada one summer and spent an hour convinced wolves were surrounding our cabin.

It was just two loons on the lake.

 

@ornithologynerd

I've spent years studying birds and I have somehow never made that connection before.

He's right.

If you don't know what a loon is, your first guess would absolutely be "wolf."

 

@CanadianEh

I am crying.

I've lived in Canada my entire life and I have never once described a loon as a wolf-bird.

Now I don't think I'll ever call it anything else.

 

@naturelover

It's somehow completely wrong and completely accurate at the same time.

 

@russianhockey

Only Ilya Rozanov could accidentally rename an entire species.

 

@hockeyreddit

This comment section started with tattoos and somehow turned into thousands of people googling loon noises.

 

@YouTubeExplorer

I just listened to one.

WHAT THE HELL.

HE'S RIGHT.

 

@internationalfan

I honestly thought everyone was exaggerating.

Nope.

That bird sounds haunted.

 

@bostonbears

Today's lesson: Stanley Cups, tattoos... and Canadian wildlife. 🐻🦆

---

@bostonbears

History isn't written overnight. It's built shift by shift, season by season, by a group that refused to settle after one Stanley Cup... and then refused to settle after two.

Tonight, your Boston Bears are three-time consecutive Stanley Cup Champions.

Thank you for believing.

We'll see you at the parade. 🏆🏆🏆🐻

#StanleyCup #BostonBears #ThreePeat #Champions

[photo]

— Ilya Rozanov stands alone at center ice moments after the final buzzer, lifting the Stanley Cup high above his head with both hands. His blond hair is damp with sweat, his face flushed from the game, and a broad, almost disbelieving smile stretches across his features. Gold confetti rains down around him while teammates blur into the background. His Bears jersey is streaked with ice shavings, his captain's "C" visible on his chest, and the Cup catches the arena lights so brightly it almost glows.

Comments:

@bearsnation

THREE.

PEAT.

I DON'T EVEN HAVE WORDS.

 

@sportscenter

An empire.

There's really no other word anymore.

 

@nhl

🏆🏆🏆

 

@espn

Three championships in three seasons.

An extraordinary run.

 

@bostonforever

I still remember when everyone said the first Cup was a fluke.

Funny how quiet they've gotten.

 

@bruinshistoryfan

We're living through the kind of era people will be making documentaries about twenty years from now.

 

@hockeynumbers

Three straight Stanley Cups before turning thirty.

The résumé is getting ridiculous.

 

@goalieunion

Imagine having to face this man in the playoffs every spring.

Nightmare fuel.

 

@pucktalk

Ilya Rozanov has officially entered "you can't tell the story of this generation without him" territory.

 

@bostonfaithful

He needs statues built in his honor.

Plural.

 

@hockeymemes

The NHL every June:

"Please... somebody stop Boston."

 

@panthersfan

I respectfully decline to participate in this comment section.

 

@leafssuffering

Can you guys lose ONE TIME??

Just to keep things interesting??

 

@bearsnation

No ❤️

 

@hockeyhistorydaily

Three Finals MVP conversations.

Three Cups.

Multiple Rocket Richard Trophies.

Multiple Hart Trophy debates.

What else is there to say?

 

@rinkside

Every time people start wondering whether this is the year someone finally dethrones him, he somehow finds another level.

 

@NHLNetwork

Rozanov finished another postseason looking every bit like the best player on the planet.

 

@BostonSportsRadio

There was a time Boston wondered if he'd embrace the pressure of being drafted first overall.

Safe to say that question has been answered.

 

@puckdrop

People used to call him a reckless kid with too much attitude.

Now they call him an emperor.

That's one hell of a character arc.

 

@bostongirl98

Can we also appreciate that he somehow looks happier every year?

The first Cup felt like relief.

The second felt like validation.

This one just looks like pure joy.

 

@hockeyfan1998

Go back and watch the celebration.

He spends half of it hugging teammates before he even touches the Cup.

That tells you everything you need to know about who he's become.

 

@celinefromottawa

Okay but...

Can we talk about Jane?

 

@bearscountry

YES.

PLEASE.

 

@celinefromottawa

She showed up halfway through last season wearing his jersey.

Now we've got a third Stanley Cup.

I'm not saying she's lucky...

...but I'm also not saying she's not.

 

@playoffsuperstitions

The statistics are undeniable.

Jane Hollander attendance percentage:

100%.

Stanley Cups during relationship:

100%.

I rest my case.

 

@bostonsportsmom

Listen, I don't believe in superstitions.

...unless they're working.

Protect Jane at all costs.

 

@northendnick

I have never seen Ilya smile the way he smiles when she's around.

It's like someone finally convinced him life exists outside a hockey rink.

 

@hockeygirlie

Remember when TMZ caught them leaving together after that Panthers game and everyone thought it was just another Rozanov hook up?

Those were simpler times.

 

@sportsfan44

Now she's practically Boston royalty.

 

@bearscountry

Correction.

Queen of Boston.

 

@northstation

Future Queen.

We're waiting for the engagement.

 

@ringwatch2026

ILYA.

IF YOU ARE READING THIS.

DON'T FUMBLE.

 

@stanleycupobsessed

Imagine winning three straight Stanley Cups and STILL somehow managing to outkick your coverage.

Respect.

 

@canadiancinema

I still remember Jane from Sans titre.

Seeing her become one of the faces of Boston sports by complete accident is honestly hilarious.

 

@primestreamingfan

The city adopted her before her TV show even premiered.

Now everyone acts like she's always belonged here.

 

@bostonfaithful

Because she does.

 

@greenlinecommuter

The funniest part is that she didn't arrive trying to become "the hockey girlfriend."

She went to one game, the camera found her, and she blushed through an entire arena chanting for her.

The rest is history.

 

@gardenregular

She somehow managed to win over eighty percent of Boston just by looking embarrassed.

That's talent.

 

@hockeymemes

Boston's offseason checklist:

☑ Win Stanley Cup.

☑ Keep Rozanov.

☑ Protect Jane Hollander at all costs.

 

@ladywhistledown

Three Stanley Cups.

A city that adores them.

A relationship everyone is rooting for.

Someone start writing the screenplay already.

 

@bostonbears

History made.

Thank you for being part of it. 🐻🏆🏆🏆

---

@cartier

Time is measured in moments.

Some become timeless.

Cartier is proud to welcome Ilya Rozanov.

#Cartier #CartierWatch #IlyaRozanov

[Photos]

— Ilya sits in the back seat of a vintage black Rolls-Royce Phantom, wearing a tailored black double-breasted suit with a crisp white shirt left unbuttoned at the collar. His left arm rests casually along the leather door, drawing attention to a yellow gold Cartier Santos-Dumont watch beneath his cuff as afternoon sunlight streams through the window.

— Standing on the balcony of a Parisian hôtel particulier overlooking Place Vendôme, Ilya wears a charcoal three-piece suit with a black overcoat draped across his shoulders. One hand adjusts the cuff of his sleeve, revealing the polished Cartier timepiece as the city stretches behind him.

— Close-up portrait in black and white. The focus rests on Ilya's hands as he fastens the strap of the watch. The edge of his jawline and the collar of his suit remain softly out of focus, emphasizing the craftsmanship of the timepiece.

— Evening photograph outside Cartier's historic Paris boutique. Wearing a long black wool coat over formal eveningwear, Ilya glances toward the camera while slipping one hand into his pocket. The illuminated storefront reflects softly across the watch's gold case.

Comments:

@cartier

Bienvenue à la Maison. ❤️

 

@dior

Looking good. 👀

 

@janehollanderdaily

Okay...

Now where is the campaign with Jane?

 

@couturelover

Seriously.

You have Jane.

You have Ilya.

They're literally engaged.

DO THE PHOTOSHOOT.

 

@fashionweekly

Cartier...

The opportunity is right there.

 

@parisstyle

Jane represents Cartier.

Ilya represents Cartier.

How are they not standing next to each other already?

 

@luxuryliving

Forget a photoshoot.

Give them a short film.

 

@filmframe

Imagine Dior directing it.

Cartier providing the jewelry.

I'm seated already.

 

@diorbeauty

👀

 

@vogue

This has to happen eventually.

They're one of the most recognizable luxury couples in the world.

 

@fashiontok

Every time one of them books another luxury campaign, I just assume the other one is showing up eventually.

 

@hautecouture

Jane in Cartier rubies.

Ilya in Cartier watches.

Now put them in the same frame.

 

@runwayobsessed

The amount of money I'd spend on whatever they're selling...

 

@bostonbears

Captain looks good.

 

@sportscenter

It's still funny to me that one of the NHL's toughest players is also quietly becoming one of fashion's biggest faces.

 

@watchcollector

The Santos-Dumont is such a perfect choice for him.

Elegant without trying too hard.

 

@horologydaily

Cartier's styling team absolutely understood the assignment.

 

@janehollanderstyle

Remember Jane's ruby campaign in Paris?

Now Ilya gets the watches.

It's giving king and queen.

 

@historyoffashion

The two of them genuinely look like European royalty every time they step onto a red carpet.

 

@hollywoodinsider

Hollywood's royal couple.

 

@nhlfashion

Sports royalty.

Fashion royalty.

Take your pick.

 

@romancejunkie

Can we all agree they're the closest thing we have to a modern royal couple?

 

@canadiancinema

Every public appearance somehow turns into a museum exhibit.

 

@cartiercollector

Waiting patiently for Cartier's holiday campaign starring both of them.

 

@luxuryliving

Honestly?

I don't even care what they're advertising.

Put Jane in Cartier diamonds, Ilya in a Cartier watch, and stand them in a ballroom.

I'll watch all five minutes.

 

@fashioneditor

Dior has the couple.

Cartier has the couple.

Someone please convince the two houses to collaborate for one editorial.

The internet would never recover.

 

@cartier

Time has only just begun. ⌚✨

---

Posted by @LuluLives ⭐️🧸👑

WHERE ARE YOU???

SHOW YOURSELVES.

I just want to talk.

Specifically, I want to have a calm, civilized conversation with every single person who spent the last eight months insisting that Jane Hollander was cheating on Ilya Rozanov with Scott Hunter just because Scott kept posting pictures of them together in New York.

Where are the PowerPoint presentations?

Where are the body-language experts?

Where are the people zooming in on reflections in restaurant windows?

Where are the "I feel so bad for Ilya" think pieces?

Because I have questions.

Actually, I only have one.

How does it feel to know that the two people you insisted were having a secret affair were... exactly what they said they were?

Friends.

Imagine that. A man and a woman spending time together because they are friends. What an absolutely groundbreaking concept.

Meanwhile, Jane was flying back to Boston whenever production gave her more than a couple of days off, Ilya kept showing up at her premieres looking at her like she'd personally invented happiness, and every photograph of the two of them together somehow managed to look even more disgustingly in love than the last.

But no.

Apparently, Scott posting a picture captioned "Luch with my favorite Ottawa girl" was the smoking gun.

Well...

The engagement announcement is here.

So, I'd like to invite every conspiracy theorist who confidently declared that Jane was cheating on Ilya to form a nice, orderly line and apologize—not to me, because I never bought into that nonsense—but to Jane.

Imagine having your character questioned for months because you had the audacity to make a friend while working on a film. And before anybody starts throwing my own history back at me...

Yes.

I was once the captain of the Clilya ship.

I've made peace with my past, and I've grown as a person.

Character development exists.

Unlike some of you, I know when to admit I was wrong.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to spend the rest of the day celebrating the fact that Ilya Rozanov is marrying the woman who somehow managed to make him smile in every candid photo taken over the last three years.

Congratulations to the future Mr. and Mrs. Rozanov.

Also...

To everyone who said Scott Hunter was "obviously the real boyfriend"...

I'm still waiting.

WHERE ARE YOU???

Comments:

@HollanovNation

I opened Reddit, saw Lulu asking people to come outside, and immediately knew what this was about. 😭

 

@BearsDynasty

The funniest part is that Lulu is somehow the voice of reason in this situation.

What timeline is this?

 

@ClifflyaArchives

The real character development here is Lulu saying "they're just friends" with a completely straight face.

 

@LuluLives

I HAVE EVOLVED.

 

@AdmiralsFaithful

As someone who actually follows Scott Hunter...

The man posts everyone.

Teammates.

Coaches.

The catering table.

Jane wasn't special. She's just photogenic.

 

@CinemaNorth

People genuinely convinced themselves that behind-the-scenes photos from a movie set were evidence of an affair.

Sometimes the internet deserves to lose.

 

@BostonBorn88

The engagement announcement somehow made every rumor from the past year look even more ridiculous.

 

@HockeyHistoryGuy

Remember when people were analyzing Scott liking one of Jane's Instagram posts?

Dark times.

 

@FilmBuffCA

Scott congratulated them within like fifteen minutes of the announcement.

Almost as if...

…they're actually friends.

 

@HollanovCentral

The only people inventing a romance were people on the internet.

 

@LuluLives

Exactly.

Normal people saw friends.

The internet saw a conspiracy board with red string.

 

@BearsBannerCrew

The funniest thing is that Boston has been treating Jane like family ever since she showed up in that Rozanov jersey.

Half the city already assumed they'd end up married.

 

@QueenWAGBoston

She won over an entire hockey fanbase just by looking embarrassed when thirty thousand people started cheering for her.

 

@StanleyCupCollector

Ilya never said a word during any of the rumors.

He just kept quietly showing up for her and that says more than any statement ever could.

 

@RomComExpert

I honestly feel bad for Scott.

Imagine posting a selfie with your friend and waking up to a hundred comments accusing you of ruining a relationship.

 

@HollanovNation

This engagement feels so earned.

We've watched these two support each other through Stanley Cup runs, award seasons, movie premieres, and insane travel schedules.

 

@ClilyaArchives

Lulu admitting she was wrong about Cliff and Ilya but refusing to let anyone else avoid accountability is exactly why she's my favorite Reddit user.

 

@LuluLives

Growth is important.

So are public apologies.

---

Variety

Jane Hollander Caps Historic Awards Season with Emmy and Golden Globe Wins for The Lion's Den Before Stunning in Custom Dior at the Emmy Awards

For the better part of the year, Jane Hollander has dominated conversations about television.

Now, she has the trophies to match.

On Sunday evening, the Canadian actress won Outstanding Lead Actress in a Drama Series at the Primetime Emmy Awards for her performance as rising chef Claire Beauchamp in the second season of Amazon Prime's critically acclaimed culinary drama The Lion's Den.

The victory is followed only a few months later by the Golden Globe for Best Actress in a Television Drama, completing an awards campaign that critics had predicted since the season's explosive finale.

It marks another extraordinary milestone in a career that, despite her youth, has become defined by an almost startling consistency. After winning the Canadian Screen Award for Best Actress with her very first leading film role, Hollander successfully crossed into television without losing the naturalism that first distinguished her on the big screen.

Season two of The Lion's Den asked considerably more of Hollander than its debut season. While the first introduced Claire as a gifted young chef struggling to earn her place inside one of Boston's most demanding kitchens, the second dismantled the confidence she had spent an entire season building. Professional triumph became increasingly intertwined with personal sacrifice as the series explored burnout, perfectionism, grief, and the relentless pursuit of excellence. Hollander's performance anchored each emotional turn, delivering a portrayal that critics praised for refusing melodrama in favor of extraordinary restraint.

Several episodes quickly became awards-season favorites, particularly the season's penultimate hour, in which Claire continued preparing service only hours after receiving devastating personal news. Hollander played nearly ten uninterrupted minutes with almost no dialogue, allowing exhaustion to reveal itself through increasingly mechanical movements, fleeting hesitations, and tiny cracks in an otherwise disciplined exterior. It was the kind of performance that rewarded close attention, revealing as much through silence as through speech.

By the time Emmy nominations were announced, few doubted she would be among the frontrunners. Her eventual victories at both the Golden Globes and the Emmys now firmly establish Hollander as one of television's defining dramatic performers.

Yet while her acceptance speech celebrating the cast and crew of The Lion's Den drew prolonged applause inside the theater, another moment from the evening quickly began dominating social media.

Jane Hollander arrived on the red carpet wearing a breathtaking custom creation by Christian Dior, an homage to one of the house's most celebrated designs: the legendary Junon haute couture gown first unveiled in 1949.

Rather than producing a direct replica, Dior's ateliers created a contemporary reinterpretation that remained remarkably faithful to the spirit of the original. The gown featured a sculptural, strapless bustier in soft ivory silk whose clean architectural lines allowed the extraordinary skirt to command complete attention. From the waist flowed hundreds of individually constructed scalloped tulle petals layered into a sweeping silhouette that recalled the iridescent plumage of a peacock in full display.

Every petal had been embroidered by hand with intricate gradients of sequins, crystals, and delicate beadwork that shifted almost imperceptibly from pale silver at their centers into luminous shades of blue-green along their edges. Under the flash of photographers' cameras, the embellishments appeared almost liquid, catching and reflecting light differently with every movement Hollander made. As she posed the skirt seemed to shimmer rather than simply sparkle, creating the illusion that the gown itself was alive.

Fashion historians were quick to recognize the reference. Christian Dior originally named the design Junon after the Roman goddess Juno, drawing inspiration from the iridescent feathers of the peacock, the goddess's sacred bird. More than seventy years later, the silhouette remains one of the defining achievements of twentieth-century haute couture and recreating it has become an exceptionally rare undertaking reserved for only the most significant occasions.

Hollander wore the gown with remarkable restraint. Her hair was gathered into an elegant, softly textured chignon that left her shoulders and neckline completely unobstructed, while her makeup emphasized luminous skin, softly defined eyes, and a muted rose lip. The simplicity ensured that every photograph remained centered on the extraordinary craftsmanship of the couture itself rather than competing styling choices.

Jewelry was equally understated despite its obvious magnificence. Wearing only a pair of diamond drop earrings, a matching bracelet, and her newly unveiled engagement ring, Hollander allowed the gown's embroidery to remain the evening's principal source of brilliance. The effect was one of effortless sophistication rather than excess.

The appearance also marked the actress's first major awards ceremony since announcing her engagement to Boston Bears captain Ilya Rozanov, a moment that has captivated both Hollywood and the sports world in recent weeks, instantly joining the list of the most memorable Emmy red-carpet looks in recent history.

Winning television's highest acting honor is an achievement few performers experience even once.

Doing so while wearing a gown destined for fashion retrospectives only ensured that Jane Hollander's Emmy night will be remembered as one of those rare occasions when exceptional performance and exceptional couture shared the spotlight in equal measure.

Comments:

@TelevisionAcademy

An extraordinary performance from beginning to end.

Congratulations, Jane Hollander.

 

@PrimeVideo

Chef, you did it. ❤️👩🏻‍🍳🏆

 

@TheLionsDenTV

Claire Beauchamp forever.

Congratulations to our Emmy and Golden Globe winner.

 

@CanadianScreen

From Canadian Screen Award winner...

to Golden Globe winner...

to Emmy winner.

What a remarkable journey.

 

@FilmCriticWeekly

What impressed me most wasn't the emotional scenes.

It was everything in between.

The way Claire tied her apron before service.

The way she unconsciously checked every plate that left the pass, even when she wasn't responsible for it.

The way exhaustion slowly seeped into her posture across the season.

That level of behavioral detail is incredibly difficult to sustain over ten episodes.

 

@PrestigeTVDaily

People keep calling this a "breakout" performance.

It wasn't.

Anyone who watched Sans titre knew exactly what she was capable of.

Television simply introduced her to a larger audience.

 

@KitchenDramaFan

The pantry episode deserved its own Emmy.

She barely spoke for ten minutes, yet I knew exactly what her character was thinking every second she was on screen.

 

@BostonFoodie

One of my favorite details was how Claire stopped tasting the food midway through the season.

Not because she stopped caring.

Because she was too overwhelmed to notice she wasn't eating anymore.

 

@CinemaProfessor

She understands something many actors don't: people rarely announce what they're feeling.

They try to hide it.

Watching Claire pretend she was fine while every tiny habit betrayed her was heartbreaking.

 

@ActingStudioNY

The emotional climax wasn't the scene where she cried.

It was the episode before, when she almost cried and forced herself back to work.

Restraint is much harder than release.

 

@LetterboxdLover

It's wild that the same actress gave us Sans titre, Les Cœurs Croisés, A Christmas Carol, and now The Lion's Den.

Every performance feels like it belongs to a completely different person.

 

@FrenchCinemaDaily

Canada knew.

The rest of the world has finally caught up.

 

@MovieBuff91

She has this incredible ability to make silence feel active.

Even when she's doing nothing, she's somehow telling you everything.

 

@AwardSeasonWatch

Emmy.

Golden Globe.

Engaged.

What a year.

 

@FashionArchive

Can we please discuss that Dior?

That wasn't simply a beautiful dress, itt was fashion history walking a red carpet.

 

@HauteCoutureToday

Reimagining the Junon gown is an enormous responsibility.

Dior absolutely understood the assignment.

 

@DiorObsessed

The embroidery looked unreal under the lights.

Every photograph captured a different color.

 

@RunwayReview

I appreciate that the styling was so restrained.

No oversized necklace or dramatic hairstyle.

Nothing competed with the gown.

Exactly as it should be.

 

@FashionHistorian

The original Junon is considered one of Christian Dior's greatest creations.

Creating a modern interpretation worthy of that legacy is extraordinarily difficult.

This version succeeded beautifully.

 

@StyleWeekly

That dress didn't wear Jane.

Jane understood exactly how to wear that dress.

There's a difference.

 

@RedCarpetFiles

She moved slowly enough for every layer of the skirt to catch the light.

Whether intentional or instinctive, she photographed magnificently.

 

@CoutureCollector

That belongs in an exhibition one day.

 

@EmmysFashion

One of the greatest Emmy red carpet looks of the decade.

 

@SportsAndCinema

I love that everyone started with people spending the entire night talking about her engagement ring...

...and the following day, the conversation became, "WHAT WAS SHE WEARING?"

 

@BearsForever

Ilya Rozanov looked like he forgot there were cameras.

Every time they cut to him, he was just staring at her like he couldn't believe she was real.

 

@HollanovNation

The cutest part of the night wasn't even the engagement.

It was watching him applaud before they announced her name because he already looked convinced she had won.

 

@NHLonPrime

Boston won three straight Stanley Cups.

Jane won a Golden Globe.

Jane won an Emmy.

Somewhere, Ilya is convinced she's the luckiest thing that's ever happened to him.

 

@CinemaNorth

I remember discovering Jane through Cartier.

Then Dior.

Then Miss Dior.

I figured she was another model trying acting.

I've never been happier to be completely wrong.

She's one of the finest actresses working today.

 

@ModelToMovie

Exactly.

I came because she photographed beautifully.

I stayed because she can quietly destroy me emotionally for an hour without ever raising her voice.

 

@TVCriticsCircle

Awards are wonderful, but they'll never fully explain why people connect with her performances.

She makes characters feel observed rather than invented.

It's as though the camera simply happened to catch a real person living their life.

Very few actors can create that illusion.

 

@PrimeStreamingNews

Season three cannot come soon enough. 🍽️🏆✨

---

@Dior

Some scents are worn.

Others become legend.

Dior is proud to welcome Ilya Rozanov as the new face of Sauvage.

#DiorSauvage #Dior #IlyaRozanov

The commercial opens in absolute silence. A lone motorcycle cuts through the desert beneath a sky slowly surrendering to dusk. The endless highway stretches toward the horizon, bordered by weathered sandstone cliffs glowing amber beneath the fading sunlight. Dressed in a black Dior leather jacket over a charcoal T-shirt and dark denim, Ilya rides without urgency, the desert wind tugging at his hair as the motorcycle disappears deeper into the landscape. The soundtrack begins almost imperceptibly, blending with the low rumble of the engine until the two become indistinguishable.

As twilight settles over the desert, Ilya pulls onto an isolated overlook where the land seems to extend forever. He removes his helmet, setting it carefully on the motorcycle before standing at the edge of the cliff. There is no dialogue. Only the sound of the wind sweeping across the rock formations as he looks out over the immense landscape, his silhouette framed against the last traces of orange disappearing behind the mountains.

The camera follows him as he descends into a narrow canyon where towering sandstone walls rise on either side. His footsteps echo softly against the stone while shafts of evening light filter through the opening above. Running his hand along the weathered rock, he pauses before continuing deeper into the canyon.

Night has fully arrived by the time he reaches an open stretch of desert beneath an impossibly clear sky. He kneels beside a small fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes as sparks drift upward toward the countless stars overhead. For a brief moment, the camera lingers on the roaring bear tattoo across his chest as he unbuttons the collar of his shirt, before revealing the unmistakable Sauvage bottle resting beside him on the desert floor. He reaches for it almost absentmindedly, applying the fragrance.

The music swells as dawn begins to break. Returning to the motorcycle, Ilya starts the engine and rides once more into the open desert. The first rays of sunlight wash over the landscape, transforming the deep blues of the night into warm golds and burnt oranges. As the motorcycle disappears into the distance, the screen slowly fades to black.

The Dior logo emerges.

Then, beneath it—

SAUVAGE

by Dior.

Comments:

@diorbeauty

Welcome to the Dior family. ⚜️

 

@vogue

Now that is how you introduce an ambassador.

 

@GQ

This man was born for luxury campaigns.

 

@mensfashiondaily

The transition from hockey player to global fashion icon has been incredible to watch.

 

@elle

Every frame looked like a fashion editorial.

 

@fashionweek

Whoever cast Ilya deserves a raise.

 

@NHL

The league has officially entered its Dior era.

 

@bostonbears

Our captain cleans up pretty well.

 

@esquire

Dior somehow found someone who looks equally believable lifting a trophy and wandering alone through the desert.

 

@filmframe

The cinematography is gorgeous.

It doesn't feel like an advertisement.

It feels more like a short film.

 

@hockeyfan88

I still remember when everyone called him hockey's bad boy.

Now he's wearing Dior.

 

@fashiontok

Correction.

He's making Dior look even cooler.

 

@MensJournal

Luxury brands have spent years trying to find authentic masculinity.

I think they just found it.

 

@diorbeauty

We're honored to have you.

Welcome home.

🤍

 

@janehollanderdaily

Jane modeling Miss Dior.

Ilya modeling Sauvage.

Power couple doesn't even begin to describe this.

 

@couturelover

Can we appreciate that Dior basically adopted both halves of this relationship?

 

@fragrancecommunity

I was already buying Sauvage.

Now I'm buying it twice.

 

@runwayobsessed

The Hollanovs really said,

"You'll see us at the Stanley Cup parade...

...and then Paris Fashion Week."

 

@canadiancinema

Jane walked so Ilya could ride a motorcycle through the desert.

 

@bostonfan19

Boston's captain.

Cartier ambassador.

Face of Dior Sauvage.

Stanley Cup champion.

Not a bad résumé.

 

@Dior

The adventure continues. 🖤

---

@NYAdmirals

Sixteen years.

Countless heartbreaks and one unforgettable season.

The Cup is coming home to New York. 🏆

And our captain?

He won on the ice...

...and in love. ❤️🏒

Congratulations to Scott Hunter and Kip Grady, whose postgame kiss will go down as one of our favorite moments in Admirals history.

#NYC #StanleyCupChampions #LoveWins #Admirals

[Photo]

Confetti blankets the rink as teammates cheer in the background, but neither pays it any attention as Scott cups Kip's face with both hands as they kiss. Kip laughs into the kiss, one hand gripping the front of Scott's jersey while the other wraps around his waist. Just behind them, the Stanley Cup rests on the ice, reflecting the arena lights as photographers crowd around to capture the moment that instantly became one of the defining images of the season.

Comments:

@NHL

Congratulations to the Admirals on an incredible season. 🏆

 

@PrideTape

This is the representation young hockey players deserve.

Congratulations, Scott and Kip. ❤️

 

@HockeyIsForEveryone

Seeing an NHL team celebrate their captain's coming out instead of treating it like a press obligation makes me ridiculously happy.

 

@AdmiralsFaithful

We've loved Scott for years.

Now we're just happy the rest of the world gets to celebrate him too.

 

@RainbowRink

That photo is going to end up in hockey history books.

 

@PuckDropDaily

The best championship photo of the year.

 

@BostonSportsGuy

I can't even be mad.

That's beautiful.

 

@CanadianCinema

Does anyone else remember when people thought Jane Hollander and Scott Hunter were dating?

 

@MovieBuff91

Looking back...

I'm starting to wonder if Jane was basically his beard while he was still figuring things out.

 

@CinemaNorth

I honestly don't think they were ever pretending.

They always looked like genuinely close friends.

If anything, people just assumed there had to be romance because they were an attractive man and woman spending time together.

 

@ScottHunterFan

Exactly.

Jane and Scott never played into those rumors.

The internet wrote a story they weren't actually living.

 

@HollanovNation

Poor Jane spent months getting accused of cheating on Ilya because she had the audacity to have a male friend.

 

@FilmAndPucks

Honestly, this makes those rumors even sadder in hindsight.

People were trying to force a romance onto a friendship that clearly meant a lot to both of them.

 

@NorfolkForever

Can we also appreciate how much courage it probably took for Scott to kiss Kip in front of twenty thousand people?

 

@HockeyMom67

I hope every young queer hockey player watching that game felt a little less alone.

 

@OldTimeHockey

I grew up in an era where players had to hide who they were.

Seeing a captain celebrate like this in front of the entire hockey world means more than I can put into words.

 

@BearsDynasty

Congratulations.

Now...

Can we talk about the fact that YOU PEOPLE ENDED OUR DYNASTY?!

 

@BostonBorn88

Three straight Cups...

…and then the Admirals of all teams finally stop us.

I don't know whether to cry or applaud.

 

@AdmiralsFaithful

Sixteen years without a championship.

We earned this one.

 

@NHLHistorian

The Bears looked almost unbeatable.

For the Admirals to be the team that finally broke that streak is going to be remembered for decades.

 

@NeutralZone

I came into the Eastern Conference Finals expecting Boston in five.

Instead, I watched the Admirals play the best hockey of their life.

They deserved every bit of that Cup.

 

@PuckAnalytics

Scott Hunter captained the franchise to its first Stanley Cup in sixteen years.

Then kissed his boyfriend at center ice.

Hollywood would've rejected that script for being too unrealistic.

 

@BearsForever

I hate how much I respect this.

 

@HollanovNation

The funniest part is that Jane and Ilya are probably somewhere celebrating with Scott and Kip right now.

 

@MovieBuff91

The four of them have "double date" energy and I refuse to elaborate.

 

@AdmiralsFaithful

From breaking a sixteen-year drought, to giving hockey one of its most iconic championship photos.

This night couldn't have been written any better.

---

The Hollywood Reporter

How The Nutcracker Turned Ballet into Horror's Most Terrifying Language—and Earned Jane Hollander a SAG Award.

There are countless horror films built around monsters.

Some hide them beneath masks.

Others bury them in haunted houses, abandoned hospitals, or the supernatural.

Director Elias McCain chose something far more unsettling.

He hid his monster inside the human body.

With The Nutcracker, McCain has delivered one of the most original horror films of the decade, transforming one of classical ballet's most beloved works into an exercise in psychological terror where elegance and brutality become inseparable. The film's greatest achievement is not that it reimagines The Nutcracker as horror, but that it recognizes something audiences have long ignored: ballet itself already exists on the edge of body horror.

Every pirouette demands impossible balance.

Every extension pushes muscles beyond their natural limits.

Every pointe shoe asks the body to stand where anatomy insists it should not.

McCain simply removes the romance that usually surrounds ballet and forces audiences to confront its physical reality.

The result is mesmerizing.

Rather than relying on cheap jump scares or excessive violence, The Nutcracker builds its terror through movement. The horror unfolds in rehearsal studios and empty theaters, where dancers continue performing long after their bodies should have stopped cooperating. Ankles bend a fraction too far. Shoulders rotate beyond what joints should permit. Fingers stretch into impossible positions before slowly settling back into place. Entire choreographies become increasingly distorted, each performance resembling ballet while drifting further into something profoundly inhuman.

The film never allows viewers to look away.

That restraint makes its most horrifying images unforgettable.

McCain shoots nearly every dance sequence in uninterrupted wide takes, refusing the rapid editing commonly associated with horror. There is nowhere for either the performers or the audience to hide. Every contorted movement happens in full view, forcing viewers to question whether what they are witnessing is an extraordinary feat of dance or something catastrophically wrong.

The answer is often both.

What elevates The Nutcracker beyond an ingenious concept, however, is its central performance.

Jane Hollander stars as Merida, the celebrated principal dancer chosen to perform Clara in an internationally renowned production of The Nutcracker. For most ballerinas, the role represents the culmination of a lifetime of sacrifice. For Merida, it becomes the beginning of a nightmare.

Shortly after receiving a pair of antique pointe shoes discovered beneath the company's historic theater, rehearsals begin to change in unsettling ways. At first, the occurrences are easy to dismiss. She returns home to find blood staining ribbons she has no memory of tying, notices bruises blooming across her feet in patterns that resemble embroidered lace, and catches her reflection lingering just a fraction of a second after she has stepped away from the mirror. During rehearsals she executes combinations she has never learned, her body moving with impossible precision as though someone else were guiding every movement.

The slippers seem determined to make her the perfect Clara.

But perfection comes at a cost.

With every rehearsal Merida dances longer, higher, and with a technical brilliance that leaves directors and audiences spellbound, yet each performance demands another piece of her. Her feet begin to deform beneath the satin, her joints bend beyond human limits without breaking, and the line between dancer and choreography slowly disappears. Soon, she can no longer tell whether she is choosing the movements herself or whether the slippers are dancing through her.

It is an extraordinarily demanding role, asking one performer to function simultaneously as dramatic lead, psychological anchor, and physical storyteller.

There are remarkably few actors capable of carrying such a film.

There may be only one person capable of carrying it quite this way.

Long before she became known as an award-winning actress, Hollander trained in classical ballet under the guidance of her mother, Yuna Hollander née Sato, the celebrated Japanese prima ballerina whose performances with Montréal's ballet companies remain deeply admired decades later. While Hollander ultimately pursued acting rather than a professional dance career, the discipline never disappeared. That foundation becomes the film's greatest asset.

Unlike many productions that rely heavily on dance doubles, The Nutcracker allows its audience to remain with Hollander almost continuously. McCain frequently frames her entire body from head to toe, lingering on complete choreographic phrases without interruption. The camera has no reason to disguise substitutions because there are none.

That decision transforms the film.

The horror does not emerge solely from prosthetics or visual effects. It grows out of watching an accomplished dancer execute movements with extraordinary precision before allowing tiny imperfections to infiltrate them. A perfectly controlled arabesque lingers a fraction too long. A développé rises impossibly high before refusing to descend. During one unforgettable rehearsal, Merida completes a flawless fouetté sequence only to continue spinning after the accompanying music has stopped, her expression frozen in serene concentration while the company around her watches in mounting horror.

Those moments succeed because they begin with absolute technical credibility.

Only then does McCain begin bending reality.

Hollander's acting proves equally astonishing. Merida spends much of the film attempting to convince herself that nothing is wrong, forcing Hollander to communicate terror through suppression rather than release. Panic flickers across her face only to disappear moments later beneath practiced composure. Even as her body becomes increasingly unfamiliar, Merida continues arriving early to rehearsal, tying ribbons around her pointe shoes with meticulous care, and thanking directors after increasingly disturbing rehearsals. The quiet normalcy with which she confronts the impossible becomes infinitely more unsettling than hysteria ever could.

The film's climactic performance is already being discussed as one of horror cinema's defining sequences. Over nearly fifteen uninterrupted minutes, Merida dances before a packed audience while her body slowly transforms into something neither entirely human nor entirely monstrous. Bones appear to lengthen beneath skin. Fingers blossom into grotesque, feather-like extensions. Her spine arches beyond what anatomy should allow, yet every impossible movement remains synchronized to Tchaikovsky's score with breathtaking elegance. The choreography never abandons classical ballet; instead, it weaponizes it.

Beauty and terror become indistinguishable.

It is a sequence that could only exist because of Hollander's unique combination of dramatic ability and genuine dance training.

That uniqueness did not go unnoticed during awards season.

Horror has long struggled for recognition beyond technical categories, with performances often overlooked regardless of their complexity. Yet Hollander's work proved impossible to ignore. Her performance earned the Screen Actors Guild Award for Outstanding Performance by a Female Actor in a Leading Role, a victory that reflected not only industry admiration but also an acknowledgment of how profoundly she had expanded expectations for what a horror performance could achieve.

By blending ballet, psychological drama, and body horror into a singular cinematic experience, The Nutcracker accomplished something exceptionally rare. It demonstrated that horror need not sacrifice artistic ambition for fear, nor beauty for brutality. Under McCain's direction—and through Jane Hollander's extraordinary performance—the two became inseparable.

Some horror films leave audiences screaming.

The Nutcracker leaves them watching a ballerina take one final bow, wondering whether what they have witnessed was a dance... or a nightmare wearing the perfect fifth position.

Comments:

@HorrorObsessed

I walked into The Nutcracker expecting creepy dolls and haunted music boxes.

I walked out wondering if I'd ever be able to watch ballet the same way again.                                                                                                                 

 

@BalletArchive

The body horror only works because Jane actually understands classical ballet.

Nothing about her movement feels imitated.

Every port de bras, every tendu, every arabesque has years of training behind it, which makes watching that technique slowly unravel genuinely disturbing.

 

@filmcriticweekly

Most horror performances rely on screaming, while Jane spends half the movie trying not to scream.

That restraint is exactly what makes the inevitable moments of terror so effective.

 

@cinephilemontreal

The scene where she's forcing herself to keep dancing while realizing her ankle is no longer moving the way it should...

I have never felt so physically uncomfortable in a theater.

 

@DanceMagazine

The choreography deserves its flowers.

So does the actress performing it.

People forget that most of those sequences weren't edited together from doubles.

Jane is actually dancing.

 

@BroadwayBallet

You can immediately tell she grew up around ballet.

Her musicality is incredible.

 

@oldschoolballetfan

Now I understand why older ballet fans kept saying she reminded them of Yuna Sato.

The resemblance isn't only physical.

It's in the way she moves.

 

@canadiancinema

There are moments where she looks so much like her mother it's almost unsettling.

Then she'll smile and suddenly she's entirely Jane again.

 

@HorrorCentral

McCain deserves enormous credit for realizing that ballet is already body horror if you push it just a little further.

Years of pain, broken toes, and hyperextended joints.

Perfection at the expense of the body.

The movie simply asks, "What if that never stopped?"                                                                                                                                       

 

@ScreenActing101

One thing I loved is that Jane never played the character as someone descending into madness.

She played someone desperately trying to convince herself that everything was still under control.

Those are two completely different performances.

 

@LetterboxdLover

That mirror sequence.

That's all I'm going to say.

If you've seen it, you know exactly which one.

 

@FilmScoreDaily

The sound design deserves prison.

Every crack, every pop, every breath...

I wanted to leave the theater.

 

@HorrorQueen

Respectfully...

I couldn't look away.

 

@GoldenGlobesWatch

The Academy still pretending horror doesn't exist while SAG looked at that performance and said, "Yeah, that's one of the year's best."

 

@AwardsCircuit

The SAG win felt historic.

Horror actresses are almost always overlooked.

Jane didn't just get nominated.

She won.

 

@MovieAwardsWatch

That standing ovation from the room wasn't because people were surprised.

It was because everyone knew exactly how difficult that role was.

 

@actingcoach_ca

Watch her posture throughout the film.

At the beginning, she's perfectly aligned.

As the story progresses, tiny distortions begin appearing in her shoulders, neck, and spine. They're so subtle you almost don't notice them consciously, but your brain registers that something is terribly wrong.

That's extraordinary physical acting.

 

@filmstudentmcgill

I went back after reading this comment.

You're right.

She's telling the story with her body long before the script does.

 

@BalletTeacher1986

As someone who teaches ballet, I spent half the movie admiring her technique and the other half praying for her character.

 

@DanceHistory

Casting the daughter of Yuna Sato in a ballet horror film was already brilliant.

Casting someone who could genuinely carry the choreography herself made it unforgettable.

 

@MapleLeafFilms

Jane's career is becoming impossible to predict.

She'll make you cry in a psychological drama.

Then she'll make you laugh in a romantic comedy.

Then she'll steal your heart in a Christmas film.

Now she's terrifying people in horror.

 

@TheLionsDenFan

And somehow this came after winning an Emmy and a Golden Globe.

Most actors would play it safe, meanwhile she picked the weird ballet horror movie.

I respect her so much.

 

@hollanovnation

Can we talk about how Ilya apparently watched this movie?

If my fiancée spent two hours twisting herself into nightmare fuel, I'd need therapy.

 

@BostonBears81

Ilya in every interview: "She's amazing."

Meanwhile he's probably sleeping with the lights on.

 

@cinephilemontreal

She's quietly putting together one of the most interesting careers in Canadian cinema.

Every project feels like a risk.

 

@HorrorObsessed

This is one of those performances people are still going to be talking about ten years from now.

Because it's unforgettable.

 

@SAGAwards

An Outstanding Performance recognizes more than emotional range.

It recognizes complete transformation.

Jane Hollander gave one of the year's finest examples of exactly that. 🩰🏆

---

TMZ Sports

Ilya Rozanov's Father Dies After Long Battle with Dementia and Fiancée Jane Hollander Flies to Russia to Be by His Side.

Boston Bears captain Ilya Rozanov is mourning the loss of his father, Grigori Rozanov, who died earlier this week following a prolonged battle with dementia.

Sources close to the family tell TMZ Sports that Rozanov traveled to Russia several days ago after being informed that his father's condition had deteriorated significantly. He has since been joined by his fiancée, Canadian actress Jane Hollander, who quietly flew overseas shortly after production commitments wrapped, choosing to remain out of the public eye while supporting the NHL star and his family through the funeral arrangements.

Dementia is a progressive neurological condition that affects memory, reasoning, and personality, often placing an immense emotional burden not only on those diagnosed but also on the families who care for them. Organizations supporting patients and caregivers have long emphasized the profound psychological impact the disease can have across generations.

Our sources say Hollander has remained with Rozanov since arriving in Russia and has accompanied him throughout the past several days, including during private family gatherings.

At this time, no information regarding memorial services has been made public, and it remains unclear when Rozanov will return to North America ahead of the upcoming NHL season.

Comments:

@BostonBearsForever

This isn't news.

This is someone's father.

Let the family grieve in peace.

 

@sportsfan91

Seriously, TMZ?

There are stories that deserve privacy.

This is one of them.                          

 

@NHLUpdates

Wishing Ilya and everyone who loved his father strength during an incredibly difficult time.

 

@MapleLeafHeart

I'm glad Jane is with him.

No one should have to go through something like this alone.

 

@hollanovnation

The only thing I took away from this article is that she got on a plane to be with him immediately.

That's what partners do.

 

@caregiverdaughter

I lost my mom to dementia three years ago.

By the end, she no longer recognized me.

People who haven't lived through it don't understand that you grieve someone long before they're actually gone.

My heart goes out to their family.

 

@HockeyMom62

My husband had Alzheimer's.

Every goodbye felt like losing another piece of him.

Sending love to Ilya.

 

@Bears81

Please leave him alone.

Don't shove cameras in his face at the funeral.

 

@FilmFanatic

I hope people respect their privacy and don't start circulating airport photos.

 

@NurseEmilyRN

Dementia is one of the cruelest diseases I've ever seen.

It doesn't only affect the patient.

It changes an entire family.

 

@canadiancinema

TMZ really could have waited until the family chose to speak publicly.

 

@MapleLeaf

For once, can we all just agree that hockey rivalries don't matter?

Thinking of Ilya today.

 

@AdmiralsFan22

From an Admirals fan—

Condolences, Captain.

 

@FloridaPanthersFan

Hockey is bigger than rivalries sometimes.

Take all the time you need.

 

@MemoryCareAdvocate

If you've never watched someone disappear piece by piece because of dementia, consider yourself fortunate.

It's heartbreaking.

 

@BostonStrong

I hope the Boston Bears gives him however much time he needs.

Family comes first.

 

@sportsethics

There should be an ethical line when reporting deaths involving public figures.

An obituary released by the family is one thing.

Breaking the news before they've spoken is another.

 

@BookLover84

My grandfather had dementia.

The hardest day wasn't the day he died.

It was the day he forgot my grandmother's name after fifty-two years of marriage.

I wouldn't wish that on anyone.

 

@MapleFilms

Thinking of Jane too.

Supporting someone through grief is emotionally exhausting.

I'm glad they're together.

 

@BearsForever81

Whatever anyone thinks about Ilya as a player, this is bigger than hockey.

Sending love to him and his family.

 

@NHLCommunity

Take your time, Captain. ❤️

---

@yuna_hollander

Today, I gained a son.

Every parent dreams that one day their child will find someone who makes the world feel a little kinder, a little safer, and a little brighter. Watching Jane find that person in Ilya has been one of the greatest joys of my life.

To my beautiful daughter, thank you for reminding me every day that kindness is a strength.

To my new son, thank you for loving her with your whole heart. From the very beginning, you became family long before today.

There is one more person I wish could have witnessed this day.

Irina Volkov.

She was like a sister to me when we were young dancers finding our place in Saint Petersburg. We shared tiny apartments, impossible dreams, rehearsals that seemed endless, and enough laughter to fill a lifetime. Life eventually carried us in different directions, as it often does.

I never imagined that decades later, her son would fall in love with my daughter.

There are moments that make you believe life has a strange way of bringing people back to one another.

This is one of them.

I know she would have adored Jane. And I know she would have been so incredibly proud of the man you have become.

Welcome to the family, Ilya. ❤️

[Video]

Soft piano music begins over black before the first image slowly fades into view.

Morning sunlight pours through the windows of a chapel, illuminating Jane as she stands in front of a mirror in her wedding gown. A seamstress carefully smooths the final folds of the skirt before quietly stepping away, leaving mother and daughter alone.

Neither says anything.

Jane catches Yuna's reflection in the mirror and instinctively reaches for her hand. They exchange a nervous smile before both begin laughing, the kind of laughter that only comes from trying not to cry.

The scene changes to Yuna fastening a Cartier necklace around Jane's neck. Her hands pause for just a second against her daughter's shoulders before she leans forward to kiss the top of Jane's head.

Outside, guests begin arriving beneath white floral arches overlooking the water. David welcomes relatives with warm embraces while Hayden Pike excitedly greets members of both families as the Man of Honor.

Inside another room, Ilya adjusts the cuffs of his tuxedo. He looks calm until someone quietly tells him, "She's ready."

Another cut, showing the chapel doors open.

Jane appears in David's arm.

For a brief moment, neither she nor Ilya seems aware that anyone else exists. By the time she reaches him, they're both laughing through tears. The officiant smiles and waits patiently while the guests laugh softly along with them.

When the officiant invites them to speak, the chapel grows so quiet that the only sounds are the distant waves below the cliffs and the occasional rustle of leaves in the summer breeze.

Ilya reaches for Jane's hands, smiling to himself before taking a deep breath.

"I spent most of my life believing home was a place," he begins softly. "Somewhere you were supposed to belong. I kept looking for it in cities, in hockey rinks, in championships, in things I could win or earn. Every time I thought I'd found it, it disappeared."

His eyes never leave hers.

"Then you happened."

Soft chuckles ripples through the guests.

"You taught me that home was never a place at all. It was a person. It was coming back to someone who never asked me to be anyone except myself. You taught me that love doesn't have to be loud to be extraordinary. It can be gentle, patient, and unwavering. It can be waiting for me after good days and terrible ones with exactly the same smile."

His voice grows quieter.

"I promise that wherever life takes us, whether we're celebrating something impossible or surviving something unbearable, you will never carry it alone. I will choose you every morning, every night, and every ordinary moment in between. I will make you laugh when you forget how. I will remind you how extraordinary you are when you cannot see it yourself. And for the rest of my life, I will do everything I can to make sure that the home you gave me always feels like home to you, too."

He smiles through eyes already beginning to glisten.

"I love you, Jane."

For several seconds, neither of them speaks.

Jane laughs quietly through her tears before squeezing his hands.

"When I was little," she says, "I thought I had my whole life planned. I dreamed about going to college and the cities I wanted to see. Every dream I had pointed toward some future I was determined to build."

She shakes her head, smiling.

"And then I met you."

The laughter that follows is softer this time, more affectionate.

"I didn't stop dreaming. My dreams simply changed. One day I realized that every future I imagined had you in it. Every place I wanted to go somehow included wondering what you'd think of it. Every success became something I wanted to celebrate with you first. Somewhere along the way, loving you stopped feeling like one chapter of my life and became the thread running through all of it."

She wipes away a tear with a small laugh.

"You have loved every version of me. The frightened one. The stubborn one. The exhausted one. The woman who doubted herself even when everyone else believed in her. You have never once asked me to become someone different in order to deserve your love."

Her smile softens.

"So today I promise you this. No matter where life takes us—across continents, through hockey arenas, onto film sets, or simply home to a quiet evening together—you will never walk through it alone again."

She lifts his hands slightly.

"I will be beside you in every victory, every disappointment, every beginning, and every ending. I will keep choosing us, over and over again, for the rest of my life. And if, years from now, someone asks me what became of all those dreams I had as a little girl..."

She smiles through her tears.

"I'll tell them every single one came true the moment I found you. I love you, Ilya."

By the time they finish, there are very few dry eyes left in the chapel. Even guests who had intended to keep their composure find themselves wiping away tears. When they're pronounced husband and wife, the applause was deafening.

But neither seems to notice.

They kiss once.

Then again.

Until someone jokingly reminds them there are still guests waiting.

The screen fades to black.

"Welcome home."

Comments:

@BostonBears

Congratulations to Mr. and Mrs. Hollander-Rozanov. ❤️🐻

 

@PrimeVideo

This is absolutely beautiful.

Congratulations to your entire family. 🤍

 

@Dior

A day filled with love.

Congratulations. 🤍

 

@Cartier

An honor to have been part of such a beautiful celebration.

Congratulations to the happy couple.

 

@RoseLandry

I HAVE CRIED AT LEAST SIX TIMES TODAY.

I love you both so much. ❤️

 

@MapleFilms

This video is so beautiful.

Congratulations!!

 

@CanadianCinema

They're so happy.

😭😭😭

 

@FilmFanatic

Hold on...

 

@BostonSportsDaily

Wait.

Did everyone read the caption?

 

@NHLUpdates

"...Irina Volkov was like a sister to me..."

EXCUSE ME???

 

@cinephilemontreal

I HAD TO GO BACK AND READ IT AGAIN.

 

@HistoryNerd89

YUNA KNEW ILYA'S MOTHER???

 

@RussianHockeyFan

SINCE SAINT PETERSBURG???

WHAT???

 

@BalletArchive

Wait...

They trained together?

 

@OldSchoolBallet

Yuna studied in Saint Petersburg before moving to Canada.

It seems like Irina danced there too.

OH MY GOD.

 

@DanceHistory

How has no one known this for YEARS?

 

@MapleLeafHeart

Forget the wedding.

I NEED THE PREQUEL.

 

@hollanovnation

I'm actually emotional.

 

@CanadianArts

Imagine being Ilya and reading that your mother was loved this deeply by your new family.

I'm going to cry.

 

@FilmCriticWeekly

The best family stories are the ones that make the world feel unexpectedly small.

This is one of them.

 

@hollanovnation

No wonder Yuna always looked at Ilya with so much affection 😭❤️

 

@MapleFilms

So let me get this straight.

Their mothers trained together.

Lost touch.

Their children met decades later in another country.

Fell in love.

Got married.

...

Someone tell me this isn't the plot of a movie.

 

@PrimeStreamingNews

Mrs. Hollander.

With all due respect.

You cannot casually reveal that your best friend’s soon became your son-in-law and then log off.

 

@BostonBears81

Someone owes us an entire documentary.

 

@LanguageGeek

WHO WRITES A CAPTION LIKE THAT AND EXPECTS US TO FUNCTION???

Chapter 13: Playlist

• Title - Dernière Danse, by Indila.

1. Thinking of You, by Katy Perry.
2. Daydreamin', by Ariana Grande.
3. Naturally, by Selena Gomez.
4. If This Was A Movie, by Taylor Swift.
5. Happier, by Olivia Rodrigo.
6. La La Land, by Demi Lovato.
7. From the Backseat, by Lucy Hale.
8. Boyfriend, by Dove Cameron.
9. Adore You, by Miley Cyrus.
10. Dandelions, by Ruth B.
11. Ocean Eyes, by Billie Eilish.
12. Empire, by Shakira.